He is a sculptor by trade-
After a day’s strenuous task
He returns home at dusk.

Is welcomed by old father’s racking cough
Which might vanish with medication
Too lavish for his means.

The asthmatic mother leaning against the wall
Tired of peering through the dim light
Is resigned to another cold, sleepless night.

The bickering wife with sunken eyes
Serves him food and the day’s woes-
Neither palatable or energising.

His puny heirs in tattered rags
Make their own petty demands-
Never met with favour or fulfilment.

He sighs at the penury
Peeping from every corner
Of his humble hovel.

His back is paining
And wrists are aching-
Fearfully weak and old he feels.

Yet oblivious of his surroundings
Fondly thinks about his unfinished statue
Even as sleep descends on his tired eyelids.

In his dream he chisels away
With rapt admiration a stone poem,
An eloquent monument for all posterity.