always was the clay transforming in his eyes
from the juicy fruits stones were slowly appearing
he wanted to create lions but begot only flies
forever galatea was born under a different meaning

on his wet brow she put of amaranth a garland
he gave her loving whispers and a kiss
she died nevertheless and in his tragic dreamland
no more was the light of every day like bliss

to the forgotten masters crying then he went
begging for just one scrap of precious core
in caves he wandered on a dusty road and bent
at dawn fresh clay he found at the front door