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.