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At the Getty
by Uriel TovarWalking through this villa
Thoughts flood my mind
As I concentrate on the intricacy
Of these time frozen antiquities
The delicate hands of the mason, artist, carpenter
Tracing the outline of their souls in each column
Every bowl, into the very floors and walls
Which these ancient people inhabited
Concentration broken
By a very simple question
Which would link their world to mine
As chills run down I realize
The illusion of freedom
And the value of art
The labor it took to
Summon the great wonders of the world
Or how easy it is
To trap the soul of
A young artist in something as fragile
As pigments and dyes on
A pulled piece of cloth
These are the slaves
Leaving their mark on the world
But the only memories left
Are the masters
Like this villa
On top of a hill
Overlooking the ocean.
07/09/2012 Posted on 07/09/2012
Copyright © 2025 Uriel Tovar
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 07/09/12 at 07:22 PM I must admit it is difficult to imagein being a slave. But as most things the definition it the key. When I worked on the assembly line I used to wonder if we weren't all slaves to the big $. Our desires for a good life putting us into slavery regardless of what the unions said. And I've questioned more than once the slavery of a wife and mother selling herself for the safety, if it be that, of a home and husband. Good write Uriel. |
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