Before the sculptor found the stone... he lives here
Among enlightened society encased in glass
See the crowd: in his mind civility rips away
So far from struggles to survive, he knows
There's still a cruel beast inside
Growing much stronger while we close our eyes
In denial
So he strives against the mob:
"What is left of a man?"
In glorified factories where they feel so creative
He witnesses ego masquerading as art
Idiots writhing to a meaningless broadcast
Paintings and sculptures with no dream, no care
"How can we survive when our art has no virtue?"
In gentrified sectors where the mood is pretentious
They speak of our sins while excusing the world
Too self-absorbed to hear a modern-day Gibbon:
"Inherited greatness causes fall of the West"
In deep despair
He finds the stone
He will remove himself from the decay
Perfect a monument to all that a city could be
Miles around, lustrous black, far away from that town
On this warm, gentle hill a vision's born; a journey's begun
As he strikes the stone
