because she demands the perfect beauty
that men cannot provide for her. But still,
she insists upon the ideal, the adamantine
which never corrupts nor withers to destruction.
She draws the sculptor into rivers of failure,
baiting him with the taste of an immortality
her fickle hands are wholly unable to provide;
She is cruel and her mind is a monster
even if her heart does flood through all oceans.
Things are imperfect
because they must start
and then stop. Yet, in between, they become
something altogether remarkable and alive,
that human thinking
could neither predesign
nor enclose and house within its gearworks. The mind
knows nothing: it is black vacuum, a cavern.
Before the David
crumbles into marble cloud,
it will have endured many stony centuries
of subtle, beautiful life. Its elephantine
will blossom in man's memory; its godlike stare
shall linger beyond flagging eyelids. Such a king,
triumphant in time, should conquer human history.