Turn the earth for clay
Which hands are moved to mould
We form an unassuming bowl
And hope that it will hold
Heat will cure and harden
Though thin and fragile, real
White ceramic from the kiln
Cooled to smoothest feel
But earth returns to earth
As to it duty bound
Fault lines fracture open
When our bowl meets the ground
With precious scars of gold
We mend to heightened grace
More solid now than ever were
Pieces held in golden lace
-
Complex grows our weave
With each sucessive splint
Until no clay remains to dull
Our vessel's faultless glint
Perfect to admire
But lost are hopes to fill
When souls are sealed within a shape
That cannot change with will
Stephen Roberts
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/kintsukuroi-3/
