Those ancient statues, at their best,
like mirrors of the otherwise unseen,
were born to hold us long enough
with symmetries and timeless nods—
in reverse of Medusa’s shock and fright,
whether sudden, shrill, or dim and quiet,
when engulfed, encrusted in the element
of a sea-like, soulless bolting void
where “all is one”—and thus, profound disconnect.
And so those carved and polished stones,
under a nameless master’s eye and hand,
would somehow speak and move to enact
anamnesis—even of a long-forgotten soul—
like a romance: the return of life’s first breeze.
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