Fire, smoke, the potter dry
Hands to carve and curve the mild
Soft and swift to squib the morph
Clay compassionate to hardened pot

Brown the red from dusky dawn
Baked to stiff and permanent form
Too hard too bristle to yell and cry
Lost smell of heaven why?

I asked it once for sadness in corner
It said it’s the loss of form the former
‘I miss the rain to rejuvenate art mine
When I was not in the cage of such life’

‘Oh clay you serve a greater purpose
Chill the water is worth, beforetime worthless’
I said to fill it with utmost pride
Fire, smoke, the potter dry

‘Worth being the motionless carcass?
Break to useless and foil to purpose?
Do you count it worth shifting life?
Live as dead for curse of revive?’

Said formed clay, the pot with cracks
Broken on surface it showed what lacks
Impossible to merge with natural self
Leaves me utmost the overwhelmed

Fire, smoke, the potter clay
Leave to terra to swing and play
Love of worms and birds to thrive
Fire, smoke, the potter cry

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