a poem by David Kimel, USA

Like the famous Galatea
Was created by a man
With the vision of a beauty
Never seen under the sun,
Imitating Pygmalion
I spent years moulding my clay,
Each detail attended slowly,
Fiddling over every day.

Looked at her from every angle
Finish touches to perfect;
Like a star to glow in darkness,
Airy nymph in sun erect,
And I hoped that my creation
Will be timeless, eternal,
Born of perfect thirst for beauty,
Tear drop of pure crystal.

Then I called in friends and neighbours
To enjoy my place, my food...
Having fun, we talked of duties,
What in world is bad and good.
Last, we talked the need for good deeds,
Higher level of instruction,
To promote the arts to public
And artists promote compassion.

When the party, late, was over,
People parting in the hall,
Looked at them passing my scupture
Without seeing it at all.
And I asked them to look over
For is new and true perfection,
To wich some just raised the shoulders
And some gawked with admiration.

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