One first tear dropped in a lake of light–
Slowly, the Artist backs away from his new artwork, contemplating it with a critical eye. She seems to be born from sunbeam to a vivid flame, bathed in a pool of light, a distinct power emanate from her perfectly shaped body. Feathered fair lady, fierce fairy, crowned by the sun, she’s purity at its utmost –no man shall lay their eyes on her, set aside her creator. And the Artist details every part of this purity, correcting some unwanted mistakes, adding some perfection to an already perfect woman.
When he turns back, satisfied, giving it a last glance, he’d swear he’s seen the wind drawing shapes in her wings and life in her lungs. He slowly goes to rest, while she spreads her wings and takes her flight.
That’s the power of creation.
Tens of tears dropped in a lake of shadow–
It’s a sour morning when the Artist wakes up, only to encounter his biggest mistake. As he stares to meet the eyes of his creation, he realizes that such purity and sweetness can’t stay forever unstained. Already, she has declined; fallen from divine to humanity, his angel-lady is left unwinged. Stone-hearted, sorrowful woman, perhaps even dead from the inside? –it’s too late to save her from his mistakes.
When he faces the truth, tears run down his cheeks, jewels of a deceived sorrow –the same as the light ones he paints on the cheek of this new, sad lady, remains of his first creation. You can’t bring something so perfect to life without paying the price.
That’s the flaw of creation.
Hundreds of tears dropped in a lake of noise–
Looking for redemption, despaired before the truth, suddenly the World comes to an end; suddenly in the Artist’s head, something explodes –a chaos he delivers on his canvas. Birds fly away as he cries the same cry as this new figure’s mouth, his eyes blinded by his own madness, hands hiding the new figure’s eyes. Through anger and despair and pain, he drops his brushes, never wanting to see it all again.
And yet, when after nightmares and darkness he finally withdraws them, he stares at her, back to her own nature. Angelic Demoness, holy weapon in her pure hands, ready for battle, ready for struggle against all, in a fierce light and a proud glory.
That’s the hope of creation.
Thousands of tears dropped in a lake of blood–
But glory’s not long as the Artist witnesses the flaws of the World. Pure and holy don’t work down here, and before his eyes his utopia meets her end. Sacrificed, sentenced to the raven’s call, for the sake of art, in a pool of pain. Her wings still sharp with hope slowly become stiff, and her breath is short, lost in these sceneries of loneliness, as she hangs from a too-symbolic cross. Her blood drips in the waters of disillusion, in which she shall drown herself later, surrounded by dead flowers.
When night comes, the Artist’s cheeks are again bathed in tears, as he finishes painting her, crowned with shame and despair and deception, her last scream dying in the twilight. Nothing remains here forever more.
That’s the price of creation.
One last tear dropped in a lake of hope–
He created and fell, created and fell again. Pygmalion himself would not have done so. But from a fall life flows again, and he holds on to his brush again to bring her back to light. New figures are born, a soft angel, another nymph, demonic sprites and holy shapes, so many children taking power from this Muse’s everlasting wings. Thorns shall remain forever to remind him of the flaws of Utopia.
But when he faces her sweet features again, born from his own hand, the Artist knows. That no matter the price to pay, an Artist’s life is one of hope, devotion and sacrifice. And in the end, his masterpiece always comes back to her Creator.
That’s the miracle of creation.
One first tear for birth–
Tens of tears for a fall–
Hundreds of tears for an end–
Thousands of tears for the pain–
One last tear for rebirth–
–One million tears dropped for the sake of creation.