They Called Me To Their Midst – My Genius, My Work.

They called me to their midst
And asked me what I worshipped?
In what I saw all that is to be seen
In what I saw glory and victory?

For four months I toiled,
Breathing through storms of cold and dust,
Holding my wits together, I carved,
A cave of eternal beauty’s trust.

Days went by, but I did not cease,
A masterpiece as none had never seen,
My blood, my sweat flooded the floors,
Transforming the rock into splendour’s sheen.

I sat in the cave by night, by day,
Allowing none other to witness my art,
I drank in its beauty; I sang its song,
None longer cave, but my joy’s part.

They called me again, but I heeded not,
So they came to wait outside my cave,
“Oh man do you see not the vulgarity of your work,
Praising your own work, is too naïve.”

In wrath I bursted out of my world,
Fiery, in red, I shot above,
Glaring at the feeble voices,
They are nothing but black doves.

“Vulgarity? I need no man to teach me beauty,
None to say about my work,
This is my worship to my symbol of eternity,
The glory, the victory of my genius, my work.”