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As the clay is thrown and
abused
All are cut and confused
The wheel turns relentlessly
Pliable yet strong we agree
The clay's only sin is to be free
Beat and pounded to submission
That potter hopes for fruition
Comes from the fire his creation
Something that has not the same duration
Of the original, soft and giving,
Still holding a part of living,
Instead it is a brittle thing
Serviceable and beautiful it can ring.
Carry water for its maker
Hold wine for the taker
Where is the life it once had
Somehow we have to be sad
As we watch and draw a card
To hold the inevitable shard. |
