The Sculptor’s Sculpture

He loved his hands, they were his God,

The sculptor, played with mud his gold,

His hearth a mess, filled with clay and dust,

Shared that with wife, a lonely woman inside

Her pretty face gloomy and her heart cried,

The sculptor for days and nights made art,

His fingers danced on clay, not on body her’s,

A pair of tearful eyes watched it all,

In silence, her heart kept clandestinely,

Beating for the sculptor remained lost,


And his lady behind the door of their nuptial,

Bond silently weeping bore her life’s fall,

His masculine body danced from here to there

With silent rhythms in the air, he swirled fair,

He dwindled there, rose and danced again,

To his sculpts that spoke of animal and birds,

His petite landscape were eyes catchers,

He made it all with virgin clay, somewhere,

Forgot his virgin wife waits in dismay,

His finger touched none, and so was he done,


Satisfied in nature’s lobby, touched no naked body,

No bosom, no heart no tears, was in his share,

He had a mate, yet alone, aloof he fared,

One sunset his fingers ached, he sat down,

On his chair, in these many years, he gazed,

What beaming beauty his space savored!

His young wife budding like lotus in still waters,

Blushed her cheeks like fresh lilies,

Her narrow long neck holding pearls in panache,

Her heart beats he heard for the first,


Thumping fast beneath her fair bosom,

He saw, yes! He saw a sculpted figurine,

Her heart’s light entered his eyes,

Ah! What buxom beauty in his hive,

He roared his manhood, filled her in his arms,

He crushed her into his strength and charm,

A handsome artist now played with his muse,

And for the first his hands danced abuse,

His fingers danced on God’s sculpture,

Her naked body was his, she waited this,


Spring entered into their abode, stayed long,

Much long, the sculptor and his mistress,

Lost in the arms of romance day and night,

And the dust! All clay remained untouched,

He embraced her, loved her, and kept her,

Safe in his chest, alas! He born to sculpt,

Only, couldn’t stand destiny’s clever game,

She was there for moments, to earn him fame,

On the decided day of fall, she laid on,

Her death bed, and asked for a favor,


Do not bury me, do not burn, do not fetch,

My body to the forlorn sculpt me, sculpt me!

Oh! My poor husband, make me your piece of art,

And shall I then remain forever in your heart,

The sculptor cried and cried and his tears,

Was the water he kneaded the clay dough,

On her naked body he put lumps and lumps,

Of clay, dead long ago she felt no pain,

Neither a tinge of cold on her fair skin,

Dawn till dark, his hands worked hard,


He fell upon earth’s chest his sculpture done,

Laid flat with emotions weighing him down,

And with virgin ray of sun, she shined in grim,

Her heart was still alive, caged forever,

Inside and she seemed the most petite,

The mud showed all, her curves and her fall,

She stood in front of him, his wife a mud doll,

Of flesh and blood, he embraced her for last,

And gave her away to the world, his first,

Human sculpture ah! She taught him real art,


The Sculptor’s name spread in air, praising,

Came for his lady love, and he roamed around,

And around to myriad corners of the ball,

He was a man and so was he, found love again,

In dark eyes of a lady, she stood tall in pride,

The sculptor’s prosperity she gained, she tamed,

It was no love at all and soon came again fall,

The day his first wife was made clay,

He was breathing, just living in her memories,

Her sacrifice made him a famous sculptor,


And in aloofness and slumber, his clay wife,

Is forgotten now, she rests in dark museum,

A piece of art now she is; no one sees her love,

No one cares the tale, yet they saw the real tears,

That still flows down her muddy cheeks,

She is named lady of tears, and that’s all,

The sculptor’s sculpture no one knew was,

A real woman, who loved her beloved much,

She gave him the gift of her flesh and blood,

And now she stands only a breathless mud doll….


*Monalisa Joshi*









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