Midday sun burns. An iron chisel plays sad tones on a stone. He enjoys prolonged chiseling. The granite conceives from his tool-point, giving birth to a god, who will be plagued in a prayer hall, with endless demands, by someone as his spouse. Though no narcissistic admiration, his sculptures are marvelous. Creativity is the sperm of beauty, growing in mind’s womb. He lights a candle at night. While warming his palms over the flame, red hue reminds him of an old bloodshed over his god. A sculptor is never a culprit behind a communal clash, yet musing moths swarm his mind. First published in issue # 16 of The Literary Hatchet.