Not to your former beauty,

Weakened, cracked and pale with age,

Stony face of former onyx glory.

 

I’ve the skills to restore you,

Replenish you – your intricate features,

The credit I will claim – mine.

 

Pinpoint precision drill-bits,

To smooth and hollow,

Your now-empty marble veins.

 

Like a spider battles his wind-blown web,

My craftsmanship, symmetric precision,

Will bring you beauty once again.

 

But who will notice these skills of mine?

I’m no Moghul, no eunuch, no bride.

I was never here – only my gap-filling left behind.