I bring thee, a rose, made of silver,
For it clashes, with thy complexion,
That has formed itself, through silver tears,
And such sorrow, that quakes, thy heavenly bosom.
God knew, who to hire,
So that the artisans, would sweep their knives,
To carve, the most ebony-laced form,
Imaginable, to my keenest eyes.
Here has my sympathy, been withdrawn,
Over to the next statue, where there is she,
A futile attempt, of a portrayal,
To a woman’s depiction, in sight of Heaven.
He, the artist, lacked in skill,
So I bend my knee, to kick it down,
And make what I will, of its heap,
Of limbs, and scattered kisses.
Send to me, my love, the courier,
He has spoken, of messages, to whom, I say, there is
An Alexandria, a Bridgette, and a Charlotte,
My making hands, are soon ready.
Filled with the passion, and the simplest desires,
There is still much to make, of another,
To often am I, the artist, said to be God,
Just a man, with a keen devotion.