The Statue of Feeling A hand turns me around A chisel and a pick keep knocking and hitting me. "Don't you try to hide in the rock, come out!" I tremble. Grooves swirl around me; The chisel and the pick unsettle me. Gradually a giant head emerges, Followed by a pair of motionless eyes, A nose, and two voiceless lips of a tolerant man. The chisel and the pick have excavated me from the depth of a fossil bed. I lower my head, my body prostrating. My back reveals the obscure ancient inscriptions that no generation Has been able to decipher. Like squirming worms, a group of men climb up the wasteland Of my prominent forehead. "Who is this?" A voice asks, frightened by my scorching silence. 1982
The Statue of Feeling.
Xiang, Huang
The Statue of Feeling A hand turns me around A chisel and a pick keep knocking and hitting me. "Don't you try to hide in the rock, come out!" I tremble. Grooves swirl around me; The chisel and the pick unsettle me. Gradually a giant head emerges, Followed by a pair of motionless eyes, A nose, and two voiceless lips of a tolerant man. The chisel and the pick have excavated me from the depth of a fossil bed. I lower my head, my body prostrating. My back reveals the obscure ancient inscriptions that no generation Has been able to decipher. Like squirming worms, a group of men climb up the wasteland Of my prominent forehead. "Who is this?" A voice asks, frightened by my scorching silence. 1982