From the block of stone...cries of liberation, not demand,
emerge in enharmonic agony for master and unborn;
the coldness churns and pounds and breathes
and flows like blood beneath the hammer blows,
unrelenting, in seduction of its brittle flesh.
The infant hours retire like mist before the seasons' splendor--
before the greed of years crowd in.
And there is birth:
that suddenly appears among its gifts of pain and awe,
not to be nourished, but to teach new truth, create a wider stage.
And there is flight:
that carries all who see along her route,
and one may feel and hear the wind that rides the earth.
And there is history:
that opens wounds and glory in a moment of reality
that comes once only, stunning sense, and memory, and time.
There is the Louvre to walk.
And Victory behind.