Your noble beard is now just white dust,
and age will still crumble your stoic dignity.
The graves you served as mute guardian of grief,
are now, like your eye sockets, paintless and empty.
Every hammer blow of some weary slave
chipped away layers of lies to reach your face.
I only hope, as bright colors fade from my view,
I may be so polished to my native sunburst stone.
Daniel Brick
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-ancient-roman-bust-minneapolis-institute-of-the-arts/
