"There," you said, "Observe his back." Each muscle
Ripples, alive with the strain and the sharp pain
That pressures as we look. The arched back strung;
Wrung, his thighs, calves, feet, forcing against Earth. His stretched arms and hands, as fine as Adam's,
Point the agonised push from Earth upwards.
Man, rolling the endless rock up to new
Heights, to lift himself: and all of mankind. "The profile of the face," you said, "is human,
Yet divinely formed. Intent. Alone: and
For ever forced to strive, to suffer. Where
In the world, will you find such a setting." "Here, from the front, the Arc de Triamphe frames
His face, shoulders and rock. His heaving back
Is framed the other way, by La Defense.
Around him, these gardens. Nearby, the Bois." "Hans Marks' statue is world class," I said. "Great
In any period." Then we walked back, happy
In the evening light; proud that we knew Hans.
And I am Sisyphus, I thought. My rock is me.
To be loved, yes loved, is my only hope.