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The mud lay there quite unnoticed and unconcerned,
Till the day a wandering crafting potter came by and settled,
He dug out the mud, shook it and sieved it for use,
Soon it was gelled with humidity into paste,
The crafter got to work,
His hands and brain working,
Brain conjured and hands endured,
It came to shape,
A dull and just about recognizable shape,
Sun shone bright and potter used it,
As his trade tool,
He left the shape to dry in the sun,
He took golden and silver colors,
To enliven the shape,
Unmistakably the shape came to life,
His fellow artisans wowed in praise,
A furnace razed in his place,
To strengthen the dried shapes,
He put this shape too in the test of fire,
It came out almost as good as the lotus from mire,
It was loaded on donkey back for the village fair,
And I fancied it and bought it there,
It was good for my front yard,
Hanging there it was not mud,
It was all metallic and silver and gold,
It collected praise of several and stood ground for months,
Till the time a fiery storm caught my yard in full,
And dragged and broke the craft like a bull,
It now lay in pouring water,
Which seeped in its broken parts,
And chased away the already fading colors,
In the morning after storm,
I saw the craft in a heap of mud,
Mud had as if had its bright clothes shed,
It was mud then and mud now I mulled,
What was bright was now dulled.

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