In shadows cast by temple's light, The artist's hand finds truth in sight, Through mimicry of life and form, A fleeting essence, pure and warm. Aristotle's gaze, upon this scene, Perceives the soul through painted sheen, Imitation, not just mere façade, A bridge to knowledge, truth unclad. Art, the mirror of nature's grace, Reveals the virtues time can't erase, In every brushstroke, line, and hue, The telos of beauty continues anew.