Twelve 'o clock afternoon, On a hot languorous Sunday The nymph trembled under the Deft strokes of the artist's chisel The artist yawned and stretched Waiting for the wife's lunch call The finish of half-formed symmetry Was irritating and hurtful to the eyes The nymph cursed the sculptor For her helpless inert woodenness He was to blame for her half-formed state God, where had he begun and now Behold the crazy rebellious asymmetry The absurdity of unspeaking formlessness and The grotesqueness of the underlying ideation.
It was a different she that had taken birth In the anarchic aggregation of the artist's mind The wood is so weedy, the mind so meandering. These frequent changes are so much traumatizing (How she wished the artist followed a structure) And then these recurrent paralyzing creative blocks When everything changed so elementally And the wayward artist began afresh each time After mind-blowing, cataclysmic changes. The artist has no right to tinker with her soul He had changed her form for the umpteenth time The artist's freedom violated her own, she thought.
And then he returned after his post-lunch siesta The nymph melted under his delicate touch Once again submitting to his artful manipulations.
