A name is a stone; a unique granite slab,

Chisel, chisel, break away all surplus,

It is not mass a name needs; meaningless,

But a picture, illustrious.and bright.

 

The artist sits and ponders, then begins,

Breathe. Breath the love into it; rest later.

For sleep is eternal once the work done.

Each day labor spent, deadline unknown.

 

What will the artist bring into this world?

A sculpture of love, light, laughter, gentle?

A sculpture of faces noble, decent?

Visages that inspire men to more?

 

Or perhaps will darkness guide the hand stray?

Eyes brimming with anger peer from the face,

A spear in one hand, a heart opposite,

A hand guided by hate may create such a namesake

 

Or worse yet,

Blandness, white,

Unadorned rock,

Work unfinished.

 

To each name a tender love is given,

To each sculptor a muse guides, ill or good.

Some love is that of benevolence, true,

Some follow Narcissus, cold to others,

And some find love too weak; never complete.