a Hudson River Waterfront,
a promenade in orange colors,
a wildfire quietly engulfs the sky, sunset.
a walk. the nonchalantly cuddling couples,
phlegmatic strolling yuppies, and the haunting thought, –
“Pygmalion is dead!”
Yes, you outlived him, Galatea. Vivace!
your demiurge is dead, expired, late, disintegrated.
the irony of the Creation is mundane.
in the perspective, dust will turn into the marble,
and you will reinvent yourself with chisel in your hand,
staring at the beloved statue. O! metamorphose.