I am the daughter of the stone, which hewn,
became the shape and study of my mind,
But even all the hands which stone exhumed
could never hold a mind so disinclined.
If every hand that traced this ivory brow
could reach into the cavern just behind,
then what of great Pygmalion, even now
who everything but life in ivory finds?
Though many tools did free me from the earth,
it was intent that shaped a finer face
and shadows of the ones that came before
that granted focus to a sculpted gaze.
Though every one created by a few,
the shadow I might cast is longer too.