Camille Claudel: The Unfinished Form
Born in shadow, shaped in clay,
hands of fire, hearts of fray.
She carved her soul in marble bright,
a woman sculpting through the night.
Paris called, she crossed the tide,
where men held gates, but art stood wide.
In stolen halls, with steady hand,
she pressed her name into the land.
Rodin watched, and flames arose,
muse and maker, love enclosed.
But passion burns and cannot hold,
his heart was pledged, his hands grew cold.
The world turned blind, her name erased,
a master’s voice—a woman’s waste.
Too bold, too fierce, too far ahead,
they crowned her mad, they called her dead.
Her brother’s word, a cruel decree,
bars and walls, a lost decree.
Thirty years in silent pain,
letters sent but none remained.
Hunger took what time had left,
no mourners came, no tears were wept.
Her grave unmarked, her name unsaid,
yet art remembers what flesh once bled.
Now hands that spurned must raise her high,
her broken form, the muse denied.
In bronze and stone, she breathes once more—
a voice restored, forevermore.
WoPoLi 
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