Turn the earth for clay <br />Which hands are moved to mould <br />We form an unassuming bowl <br />And hope that it will hold <br /> <br />Heat will cure and harden <br />Though thin and fragile, real <br />White ceramic from the kiln <br />Cooled to smoothest feel <br /> <br />But earth returns to earth <br />As to it duty bound <br />Fault lines fracture open <br />When our bowl meets the ground <br /> <br />With precious scars of gold <br />We mend to heightened grace <br />More solid now than ever were <br />Pieces held in golden lace <br /> <br />- <br /> <br />Complex grows our weave <br />With each sucessive splint <br />Until no clay remains to dull <br />Our vessel's faultless glint <br /> <br />Perfect to admire <br />But lost are hopes to fill <br />When souls are sealed within a shape <br />That cannot change with will<br /><br />Stephen Roberts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/kintsukuroi-3/
