He roamed quarries at Carraracaressing blocks of marble, tracing veinslike a blind manto find the Virgin within. Here,the limp arm hangs; here,the bent head of the mother;here, her murdered son.He coaxed her from stonechiseling in her face the memory ofSimeon's prophecy of a sword piercing her heart:a wholly inadequate portent for this,this hammer of deathharder than marble.
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