"I saw them, Pygmalion, as they dragged

Their years in debauchery. Offended by the vices

Which nature had abundantly bestowed upon the female soul,

He lived, single and lonely, devoid of a companion in his bed.

Meanwhile, with unwavering skill, he carved ivory bone

And created an image—such a woman the world had never seen—

And he fell in love with his own creation.

She had a maiden's face, so lifelike,

As if she wanted to step down from her pedestal, only afraid.

Oh, the mastery of art conceals so much!

The creator marvels and burns with desire for the semblance of a body.

He often reached out his hands towards the sculpture, attempting

To touch the form, whether it was flesh or bone. He swore it was not bone!

He kissed the statue, imagining that the affection was mutual;

He spoke to her, and it seemed as if she responded.

He touched her, and it seemed as if his fingers sank into her body.

He trembled at the thought of bruises appearing on the touched surface.

Sometimes he caressed her, sometimes he gave her lovely gifts,

Shells, small gemstones, little birds, or flowers with a thousand hues,

Lilies or colorful balls, or tears fallen from the tree of the Heliades.

He adorned her with garments, he put rings on her fingers,

And a necklace around her long neck.

Delicate earrings dangled from her ears, and pendants graced her chest.

Everything suited her. But equally beautiful she was when naked.

He laid on her bed sheets made of crimson Sidonian shells,

Calling it her resting place, and her inclined neck seemed to feel it!

The festival of Venus arrived, celebrated everywhere in Cyprus.

Near the sacred altars with golden, curved horns,

The bodies of sacrificed heifers fell, their white necks struck.

Incense filled the air. And then, having made his offering at the altar,

The hesitant sculptor spoke: "If all is within your power, oh gods,

Grant me, I pray, a wife (he didn't dare mention the statue made of bone),

Who resembles my creation, made of ivory!"

Golden Venus herself was present at the festivities

And understood the hidden desire in his plea.

Extending her divine favor, the fire blazed and the tongues rose thrice.

Returning home, he rushed to the desired image of the maiden,

And leaning over the bed, he kissed her—had she warmed up?

He kissed her again and his hands touched her breasts—

And beneath his touch, the bone softened; its hardness disappeared."

from "Metamorphoses" - Latin narrative poem by the Roman poet Ovid