The Potter and the Clay

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....'