What ran through your mind, ye anonymous sculptor,
When you chiselled poetry from stone?
When you breathed life into the eyes,
And the lust for life into the myriad nubile forms?
Did you dream before you built them,
Or did they come to you as you carved?
Did you look back to admire your work,
Or were you too bruised to think of it at all?
What were you like and where was your family
Whilst you worked through night and day?
Why didn’t you leave a little of your history behind,
For us to peer into,
Like you did those of your king?
You didn’t think of course,
that when you were done,
Dead and gone,
You would still remain immortal
Despite your anonymity.
it's hard not to be inspired after seeing the work of the anonymous at Mahabalipuram
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