Work

No, not just hands drooping with the hammer's weight,
not the taut torso, muscles shaping their own style,
but thought informing the work,
deep, knotted wrinkles on his brow,
and, over his head, joined in a sharp arc, shoulders
and veins vaulted;

So for a moment he is a Gothic cathedral,
cut by a vertical thought born in the eyes.

("The Quarry," Karol Wotyla, Easter Vigil & Other Poems, translated by J. Peterkiewicz.)