All his graceful contours were clear,
features distinguishable under mildew stain,
no more than slightly eroded by millenia
of sun, wind and rain.
The statue, no longer standing erect,
if it had ever stood at all,
lay flat on a bed of grass and herbs,
almost merging with a nearby wall.
Who or what it represented is lost,
no inscription, no hint, no date,
a work of art on a hillside slope
long-forgotten in this supine state.
I thought of the craftsman who chipped and carved,
the time he devoted to perfect
this monument to somebody or something,
now lying here without much respect.
A lesson to artistic creators
who write, who paint, who play,
we are not as important as we think we are,
but then it's not for us to say.