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.)