Ah, were I a sculptor
and you imprisoned in a block
I'd still and calm my hands,
and breathe,
and grasp my tools
and work 'round clock and calendar
'til you were freed
and perfect, stood
and if 'twould turn the trick,
to pagan gods and goddesses
I'd send up plea
if only they would grant my wish
you'd live,
and then I'd worship
only thee.
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