I am clay;
Bits of vertebrae
And squandered breath,
Pressed down between
The stones and molten
Legacy of our ancestors,
Dredged from the quarries
And passed into artisan hands
To be worked and pressed,
Inside out by calloused
Skilled fingers,
Fixed yet spinning,
Transfixed and yielding,
Till the magnetic fingerprint
Of the Universe is forever engrained
Within my refined and humming core
By the purifying kiss of a flame.

I am clay;
Whose hollowed painted body
Now holds water
From the well spring,
Running swift in
Its ancient carriage to the sea,
Beneath the meadows for eons,
Upon which the woman
Walks with me,
Perched perilously graceful
Upon her ample swaying hips,
Before she brings my
Imperfect mouth to her lips,
To rinse clean the
Residual impurities
And regrets from her body,
As the sun sets on her destiny,
And her dreams.

I am clay;
To be shattered without remorse
By the wrath of War,
Beneath hooves of
Smoldering enslaved solider horses,
And buried deep,
Entangled with the bleached bones
Of their enemies,
To be forgotten
In shimmering snow banks
And lush monsoon rains,
Under the rise and fall
Of grasslands and empires,
Till the whisper of history
Tugs gently at one human's curiosity
To dig down to the darkness
Where my dormant life force
Still gently hums.

I am clay.

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