Walls of Marble
From lofty mountain, piercing peaks, the untouched marble lay
Until a climber, taking note, chiseled it away.
He wrapped it, packed it, hauled it down, sweat mingling with blood.
Then in his shop, set on a shelf, the block of marble stood.
Pride torn down, his grandeur lost, the lonely marble cried
For on that day, cut from his perch, his reign of glory died.
Days passed to months, and months to years, the sullen stone forgot.
Alone: cracked, chipped, and scarred, he took himself for naught.
But suddenly, shirt ripped, hands firm, a sculptor wise and true
Stopping, observing, crack obscuring, a vein of gold shone through.
He bought the block, and took it home, and hammered day and night,
Boldly carving 'round the veins, giving gold new light.
Veins branching, turning, shining winding, incomparable design.
Confused, but healed, the marble thought, "How could this be mine?"
But shackled, caged, and kept from view,
No unruly perceptions could obscu'e
The truth that within the marble sprue.
Divine or chance, it matters not, unless we truly see.
It's not what's not, but that which is, will finally set us free.
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