If I were the potter
what would I say?
What would I ask
of that cold lump of clay?
Would I expect it to dance
or sing me a song?
Would I ask it to make itself
know right from wrong?
How odd to believe
that the clay could emerge 
as something of value
by a self-powered urge
It’s the hands of the potter
that shapes the smooth slip
The mud finds its life
in those kind fingertips
Left to its own
the lump never knows
the glorious end
the master bestows
So I’d say to that clay
as a lump you may start
but trust me to make you
a great work of art

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