The Sculpture

From the ground
That’s where it was first picked up
Clay, made from dust
Something so dirty, most times unwanted
Unaware of its worth

With water, clay was softened
First step towards transformation
The hands provided the effort
From the heart… love and patience
Clay and hands, oh what passion

From mere dust to a masterpiece
Greatness, many perceived
So stood the sculpture for the complete years
That’s when the legacy ended
If only it was avoided

The hands that made it all
Same hands that made it fall
From once placed so high
It was thrown right to the ground
Some parts lost… and never found

A year after, for what was ever after … (supposedly)
The sculpture, the hands miss
Thus they were picked up piece by piece
But some were lost
It was a lost cause

Tried he did with what’s left
The hands did their best
But the clay was no longer the same
Some pieces were missing
Sigh… certainly pointless in pursuing

Passion not faded, but hands were tired
Hurt… from the cuts, those sharp pieces made
Fiasco it is, finally came to term
It was after all, the right judgement
What’s left… only reminiscence

ZewT
14 October 2004
5.52 pm