Cast in Carrara, the heart's image
The only the virtuoso ever cared to claim
Far from the passion or the pity emblematic
An ethereal youth depicted
A beauty beyond the clutches of weather or wilting
An elysian equanimity that's the zenith of reaching
where it all started
In the cradle of mother ever waiting
Would the earthly mother
cast in flesh and bone,
and in fine marble at times,
have been more content,
had she not let Him
off her lap and walk into the world?
The world that couldn't care less
even after he's crucified
To a mother, not cast in cold Carrara,
would anything mean more
than the earthly bliss,
that beats heavens hands down,
of holding your child, alive, breathing?