I once dreamed of you dancing in my arms, but here I find you’re only marble, only stone; you are the culmination of years, the final result from my complete dedication to an ideal, but you are just dead stone. You look alive, my love, but we will never dance. I have lived to make an idol, and I have worshiped the form I saw in my dreams—only dreams. I could take a chisel and destroy you now, or leave you to the wrecking of time. In either case, your end is mine: time makes dust of us both.