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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 saddedned 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 dance and he'd play...
Soon love came-in at first sight,
But these pieces of clay,
Fell into a trap of envy and
Began the struggle 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 be not mine,
Pray let me stay as one....'

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