The Potter, drenched in his noon-day sweat,
Sat hunched, cursing his fate;
The Clay which he fiddled with now
And the wheel he made to rotate,
Found him saddened by a thought--
Saddened by his inward urge:
Should he make two separate figures?
Or should they be merged?
Straining softly his fingers, first
He carved out a beautiful girl:
She thought how worthy she was made--
On her toes she did twirl..
With another piece of that clay,
The Potter's hands so swift,
Carved-out a man--a handsome Prince,
To be her Worthy gift...
The Sun drenched already, the life of him
And fused it in the clay:
The God-like Potter who played some more
Thought of it this way...
Now both of them, kept in the Sun--
She'd smile and he would play...
Soon love came-in at the first sight,
But these pieces of clay,
Fell in the trap of envy soon
And both struggled to live--
Both knew of what is their's to take--
None ever learns to give....
Meanwhile the Maker, seeing them crack,
Frowned in great dismay,
Quickly picked up, merged them both
To a single ball of clay:
He thought again, what went wrong
And spun the wheel anew
'Should I make a single figure
Or should I remake the two?'
The Clay, still spinning in itself,
Knew It wanted none;
'Let life of Strife not be mine,
Pray let me stay as one....'