stone, cold stone
marble, white and frozen
and her face stares out at me

i see the marks of the file
the chisel scars
in her porcelain breasts
and her pale arms

ice-cold maiden
cannot move nor breathe
the only touch she's known
that of the sculptor,
cutting her out of the heart
of a marble block.

her clothes cannot move or drape
her eyes cannot blink.
if she could speak
what would she say?

would she ask for warmth,
for love and tenderness?
would she revile the man who created her?
or would she cry and hide away?

an ice-white lady
marked and carved
a piece of stone given form
her eyes asking the question,
who am i?

© Elizabeth Klassen 2009

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