The Statue

As I stroll down the narrow streets in Rome,
I notice a beautiful woman carved in stone.
Almost hidden away inside of her home,
In the wall where she stands all alone.
I wonder who is she?
What is her name?
Is she staring back at me,
As she stands so innocent, so tame.
Her head is tilted with a mischievous smile,
As she carries fruit inside of her basket.
She stares off in the distance all the while,
She is stuck on a pedestal in the wall of her casket.
Her one expression,
Such a mystery.
Is it one of fear, love, or suspicion,
From her past, her history?
What is she hiding or trying to cover?
Is it her feelings of hurt, jealousy, or envy,
For her husband, rival, or lover?
Is her look one of despair,
From carrying her heavy basket of the fruit of her labor?
Is it a look of warmth she wishes to share,
With the people of the world to improve their mood or behavior?
And what of her fruit inside of her sack?
Did she grow them or are they stolen?
Does she still smile as she breaks her back,
Picking fruit as her feet become swollen?
Does she serve them to royalty or villagers in need,
Or does she have a husband and children to feed?
Whatever her story,
Only one thing is known,
The artist didn't carve her
She emerged from the stone.

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