Midday sun burns.
An iron chisel plays
sad tones on a stone.
He enjoys prolonged
The granite conceives
from his tool-point,
giving birth to a god,
who will be plagued
in a prayer hall, with
endless demands, by
someone as his spouse.
Though no narcissistic
admiration, his
sculptures are marvelous.
Creativity is the sperm
of beauty, growing in
mind’s womb.

He lights a candle at night.
While warming his palms
over the flame, red hue
reminds him of an old
bloodshed over his god.
A sculptor is never a culprit
behind a communal clash, yet
musing moths swarm his mind.

First published in issue # 16 of The Literary Hatchet.