Beautiful Galatea stands confused, looking around, smiling out of place,
Says: “I can’t understand, can’t comprehend—why you vanished without a trace?
I became just what you dreamed—not once I strayed, not once I lied.
To become human? I tried. I learned their ways. And I laughed, and I cried.
Everything’s right: I’m warm—go on, just touch my hand.
I breathe, I sing, my eyes are bright, my hair flows as you planned.
But just a moment passed—and you vanished, you remained in yesterday.
Why, my teacher, you gave me human life, yet not take immortality away?
You spoke of fishing rods and catch—so now I hold this useless pole.
But you’ll never graze me again—with your riffler, rasp, or sculptor’s maul.
Perhaps I missed something you said,—if so, then show me, make it clear,
Yes, the living can’t tell me apart now, but they surely know why they’re here?”
And she gazes at the graveyard statues, choosing which path she should take,
And she leaves the funeral, paying no mind to the crowd that follows in her wake,
And she goes into the workshop, leaving behind both the fools and flatterers’ call,
And in rough marble, crude and clumsy, carves the face, most dear of all.
2025.07.21