THE POTTER’S HANDS

The Potter’s Hands

Clay in palm, I shaped my fate,
Molded firm, yet cracks remained.
Elders spoke in dusk’s embrace,
"Change the press, let strength be gained."

Paths I walked, etched deep in dust,
Led to walls that would not yield.
Yet rivers carve the stubborn rock,
Not by force, but time revealed.

In market squares, the traders know—
Not all coins can buy the trade.
Some must barter wit for wealth,
And shift the stance from which they wade.

The drummer’s hands must shift the beat,
When feet grow weary of the tune.
A rigid branch will snap in storms,
Yet palms will bend and rise in bloom.

O seeker bold, the tale is clear—
The bow unbent will never send,
But he who learns the art anew,
Shall guide his arrow to its end.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The God's Cruel Jest

The Strands of Marriage in the Era of Divorce

Growing Together, Not Apart: How to Evolve as a Couple