The Statues We Built
We’re told they’re misbegotten:
The signs in their hearts,
Born from injustice.
The heat of the sun,
Born from intractability.
The turning of the universe,
Born from man’s collision.
We’re told they’re unloved:
By ancient eyes,
Muddy-colored and blind;
By impervious lips,
Affording less of a smile;
By molded ears,
Folded in like iron fists.
But the present speaks through:
In some way,
Some heard-of way;
But no one listens
To a contemporary vision;
So sculptors must walk
Into the sun;
They have to touch its fire.
They have to fabricate signs,
Make them bold;
And turn the universe
With the muscle of a heart;
And break through and into
The stone that burns them.