In the early days, in the grand city
Of Rome, full of artists and great thinkers,
One sculptor was admired as a master
Of his craft, though yet a child, lovely faced
With rich curly locks and deep batting eyes
He couldn't have seen more than eighteen years.
But he was known, this talented youth, Blaine
For his gentle touch with chisel and stone
And the beautiful people he could create.
An artist by trade, a romantic by
Nature, the busts and portraits he carved were
Much sought-after. But what drove the Romans
Mad were his striking features and graces.
"Blaine!" the women fawned on him, loving his
Thoughtful glances, but he could not reply
With any authentic fondness to them.
The men too, worshipped his strong form and stance,
The light in his eyes, his pristine presence
When singing a nice tune or debating.
But Blaine found them all drab, his ivory
People the only truth in the dark world.
One day the deft youth seized his chisel
And said unto himself, with artist's pride,
"The people of Rome are flawed, but for what,
If I could make one perfect boy I know
My heart would burst with joy." And upon these
Fateful words, the youth began to chip at,
Form something grand from the nebulas mass
Of solid pretty ivory marble.
Legs emerge, strong and brave, a body starts
To take its shape. Blaine has never carved like
This before, as if the marble knew its
Course and what it will become. He works
So fast he doesn't realize the amount
That he has done in just one hour, stepping
Back he sees the power of his love for
Lo- look at what Blaine has made. A lad of
Perfect ivory air, light as he is dark.
His dazzling lad is taller and fairer
With soft and solid skin, thick head of hair
And a delicate and angelic face.
Blaine stares at the boy with wonder, "Could he
Be real? Have I found him at very long last?"
And so a strange courtship began: between
The artist and his divine masterpiece.
Blaine cares for the statue as if it lived,
Dressing it in elegant robes and clothes,
Presenting it with little trinkets
Bobbles he hopes his man will quite enjoy
He showers the statue with bright flowers
Of every color, often tucking one
Behind an ear for fine decoration.
He fancies the lad would sing and have a
Voice as pure as polished glass or sweetly
Melting ice or a river bubbling clean.
Blaine feels as though he alone knows his boy
And that the silent statue knows him too.
Often he gazes at the sweet marble
Countenance of this lad he so adores.
He treasures his gentle eyes and soft mouth
Frequently—ah, far far too frequently—
The sculptor wishes he could caress those
Stone lips into life, to kiss his ideal.
For the young man is perfection, Blaine loves
Him as a soul mate, as his other half.
One day he noticed the shy smile he has
Formed upon his lips, "Courteous" comes to
Blaine's mind and to follow his foreign air,
Names his model Kurt, a Germanic name,
Which means "full of wisdom" for one as fair
As Kurt surely must be wise, he reasons.
Blaine stays shy with Kurt, he wants this courtship
To be perfect, then curses himself for
Loving his own masterpiece. Oh, but how
Blaine starts when his eyes play tricks on him and
The light makes Kurt seem to move and reach out
To his creator, his heart fills briefly
With joy then a bitter wave of regret
Overcomes him—"If only Kurt were real"
He says. Blaine sorrows, so near and so far
From utter completion and happiness.
Regularly, Blaine will take Kurt's pale hand
And stroke it so soothingly, "My, did I
Create this supple hand? It must be real
He must be real, I will it to be so."
He fools himself, but just for a moment
Then realizes his blunder, that he
Has given his heart to a boy of pure
White marble, who will never love him back.
Or will he? The Romans in the city
Go wild at the Festival of Venus.
Romance dances through the air, but Blaine feels
Dark inside, at the tall temple he prays,
"Oh, Venus, please grant me devotion to
—he almost said my pure darling Kurt—
a boy like my pristine ivory Kurt.
A love such as that would state me always.
Grant me this I pray to you this fine day."
And kind Venus looked down upon the city
And its Roman sculptor with his angel
And had pity on this fool mad in love.
Back at his studio, Blaine sighed to see
The lovely statue, solid and unchanged
Alone with golden sunlight painting his
Seraph face with joy. Blaine, shy suddenly,
Walks up to the taller youth, feels his face,
His chest, his arms, ah stone, chill, unyielding,
Why do you taunt the lad so? Rage and love
Fester in the artist, "Won't my art love
Me as well?" His eyes glance to the stone's lips.
How many times has he thought of those soft lips?
Since he formed them, every day, every spare
Moment? With a careful and tender hand,
Blaine held Kurt's face and leaned into his muse
With his other hand, Blaine found where Kurt's heart
Surely rests in his marble chest, once there
He fancied he could feel the pulse of one
Reacting to his lover's sweet skilled touch.
The air makes Blaine dream, Kurt's lips look alive
And with a leap of faith, with hope for love
Blaine shortens the space between the two boys
And completes a kiss he has long fancied.
Is it-? Could he-? Oh my-! What joy divine!
The kiss is exchanged fully; sweet for sweet.
He feels the stone alight, like sunlit wax.
Blaine pulls back after a moment, his boy
Has come alive from his loving! He chimes,
"Blaine, I felt your love even as I stood
Cold and alone here. I know you, my dear.
I'll be yours, if you'll be mine, mine alone."
"Ah Kurt, my angel, my art, my very soul
How could I gladly live here without you?"
And Venus made it so, in Rome all those
Long years past, oh, couples lit up the streets
By the grand coliseum, but none were
Grander than these lovers: Kurt's light, Blaine's dark;
They matched like two made for one another
(And in a way, they were) Venus treasured
This special pair and when Blaine carved lovely
Marble children, the exquisite family
Grew some more. Then Kurt and Blaine, together,
In the city of Rome lived a life rife
With bliss and love for the other, always.