This silly game of marbles is played out,
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a strangers hand has shot it to its end,
with his first move he built up a redoubt,
which none will overcome and none can mend.
Five centuries are gone around the bend
since Buonarotti broke him out of jail
to show the world what none could comprehend,
but he could see behind the stony veil:
Smooth, fluent lines, a dreamboat of a male
reposes with a look, “Come, make my day”,
impacted by this stone all gazers pale,
his slingshot hits from distances away.
I `m sure he has the so-called inner eye,
his hands are still, his missile does still fly.