The is a statue near my old house

Which I used to pass day in, day out,

One arm stands broken, torn by age,

While the other proudly points

Towards the glowing sky,

The stony gaze never slips far

From the rolling clouds

And its mouth is set in a fierce grimace,

I used to wonder at this proud spectre,

What he was to people

That they built a statue in his honour,

I wondered if he used words or actions

To inspire some great emotion,

But most of all I asked the question

If he was once so dear and great,

Why is there no name beneath this effigy?

Why does the pedestal stand empty,

And the limbs cracked and cold?

Could not a name have been spared

To weather the greatness of time with him?

Or was he perhaps no man,

No man, just an idea,

Was something ever so great

That a face had to be made for it?

Was a hope ever so dear,

That stone was broken and carved for it?