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.