There they stood, eyes closed, brows furrowed, left arms pointing down.
The muscular specimen were unrecognizable and estranged
Dark torsos with heads at shoulder height, bodies tilted toward the abyss.
Bronze more than life sized
Clumps of metal, so clod like, so powerful …
Only Rodin’s magic with lost wax could recreate the comedy divine.
“Into the morass you are cast;
Into the gloom you must go;
Abandoning hope as you enter the gates, for you are my eternal foe.”
But the museum was not to be, instead a station for steel tracks and modern transport.
The years would ebb and the waters would flow,
Making that train stop and congeal: a museum piece for the damned.