The Clay Pot

In the core of a calm town fair,

Stood a potter's modest home, where

With calloused hands and delicate consideration,

He formed his fantasies in earth's delicate gaze.

From sunrise till sunset, his wheel turned,

Making vessels to hold life inside.

However, one dirt pot, with a story untold,

Longed for a story, striking and intense.

In its bends, mysteries stayed,

Murmurs of affection it yearned to tell.

Each stroke of the potter's hand,

Repeated the longing of that earth land.

It yearned to hold the scent of spring,

To support giggling and tunes to sing.

Be that as it may, destiny had woven an alternate string,

As it sat disregarded, its soul drained.

However, in the quiet of the potter's room,

In the midst of the residue and get-together melancholy,

A heartfelt tune started to rise,

From the profundities where trust lies.

For in the core of that earth pot's center,

Lay a flexibility, a yearning for more.

As time passes, it murmured a request,

To be something other than whatever eyes could see.

Thus, one eve, as dusk moved,

The potter risked upon its daze.

With newly discovered reason, he stood firm,

What's more, etched ponders with delicate hand.

From that dirt pot, a work of art was conceived,

A vessel of stories, endured and worn.

For in its breaks and blemishes, it tracked down its beauty,

A demonstration of the excellence of life's hug.

So let this story be a confirmation valid,

To the earth pot and everything it could do.

For in its excursion, it saw as its worth,

A demonstration of the sorcery of resurrection.