For a day I was Rodin.
My hands belonged not to me,
But to Michelangelo
And Donatello.
I saw the gray block of clay.
It danced before my eyes,
Upon the table it swayed and rocked
With the silent music that was
Such perfect inspiration.
I heard it. It spoke to me
Saying:
“Hear me, hear me,
My creator,
My molder,
My God.
Hear me,
I speak to thee, a man with smooth hands
And inexperience.
So listen.
Listen to these guides
And follow.
May you create me,
May you mold me,
May you rule me.”
As it continued, my hands followed in its directions.
I felt humbled by its great knowledge
Of itself.
I was but the tool with which
It created,
It molded,
It ruled
Itself.
I saw it become.
First, a block,
Then a shape,
Then a soul
I saw.
Such a form—
O such a beautiful form it took.
I handed my creation to my teacher.
He cracked it
Beneath his bare knuckles.
“Follow the directions next time.”