The sculptor’s hands have stilled at last.
No mallet sound, no chisel rings,
The temple shadows hold him fast,
The god who fashions all-made things.

Between the held breath and the beat,
The world awaits, undone, unwrought.
A universe lies incomplete,
A single, potent, silent thought.

The first dawn hesitates to start.
The last dream lingers, undefined.
He stands, the unmoved mover’s heart,
With all creation in his mind.