His Wheels

How much has gone past and lost
Since knowing the cover of this illusion?
         In ensemble of those sweet, enthralling,
         Wavering flames
         Yet hefty chains called life 
         Had not the man seized and burnt,
         What could have been but just?
         When had it stopped from cutting
         And shredding to pieces the unadorned?
Sure, sweat had gushed in rivulets,
As more had those labouring hands,
Wrinkled sagging stretch of skin
Spent scorching under the sun,
Till the skin too had burnt and blown
To a dusty shade of rising morn. 
          Such hands had held those delicate themes:
          Some shadowy figures melded in porcelain.
When rain had burst in potters hut
Of hundred years of misery,
Decades of inhumane thirst and agony,
His back had faced heavens wreath
Embracing his backed treasury.
          Those pots baptized by blood,
          Held heavens tears in them 
          Murkiness had danced in white mist
          Swirls of tendrils black, flitted in liquid bliss.
The land had reborn.
Though people's shattered lives 
And tears,
Mournings upon felled trees and homes
Had spurned the falls merriment.
His eyes beholding shattered things
Fixated upon his earthen goods.
His chest had heaved,
Peace washing away sickening palour.
Amidst the silent cries of blameless sufferers,
His sighs had ruptured,
The silence of that mourn.
          Years past, sun still shone bright and hot.
          The potter in his tomb of dead hopes,
          Sat bare chested,
          As his wheel of creation went melding together,
          Rushing in rythm while moulding together
          Creamy lumps, which swirled, twirled and danced
          Rose up and bent 
          As if in a trance.
          Till out at last emerged a dainty figure:
           Narrow neck with bounty bosom
           Tracing the lines and tales on itself
           Of trees bursting in spring with blossoms,
           Of vines entwined in meadows,
           Rustling past all in thunderous, phantom 
           Sound of wind passing all, yet none.
           Such wilderness, etchings of dreamy tales
           Carved were in it's neck of supple taste.
How much of ages past, gone and forgone
He still sweats together to just create?
            Tracing blood of an enchanting night
            On his one crippled hand of olden age
            He  sheds not tears of reproach
            But sighs of regret.
How much had he spent his life
Creating nothing but flimsy figures of mud?
            The summer will shed it's warm hue soon
            And shed her glare on him as well.
            Neither the beauty of delicate spring
            Nor the enthralling views 
            He so painstakingly etched will attend him
            When this dawn at last,
            He makes his journey
            Past all and go to his deathly prison.