Look look look
  At this huge clay
   Clay is  falling on top of  clay
    The end of clay is also clay
      Hey!!! stop stop stop......
        Stop saying it "my ,mine"
           Nor its yours , nor  its mine
             Its four days !!!
               World is festival of four days    
                 Then the clay is just waste
                   The end  
                     Dont make  
                       here hustle bustle
                         Also i am clay
                           also you are clay
                             This Castes is clay
                              Those Clours are clay
                                  "  Just God is high"
                                      Everything else
                                         Is just
                                               " clay"

Clay home
You absorb the blows
And you keep me safe
From what I'm too weak to show

Clay home
Your walls may crack
But I'll repair them again
For you have my back

Clay home
You constantly evolve
You must fit this disguise
That protects my resolve

Clay home
It is dark inside
But you hold me tight
Like a beach to a tide

Clay home
A voice has spoke out
"Are you okay?"
"I am fine!" I shout

Clay home
These walls are my life
But that voice still lingers
Causing waves of strife

Clay home
Can you really protect me?
I'm beginning to doubt myself
It wants to be free

Clay home
I claw at this prison
The foundations are shaking
Why has this feeling risen?

Clay home
I have mastered my craft
Of molding you into what I need
But I must walk a different path

Clay home
I'm afraid though
How long will I last without you?
Carrying this weight that I tow

Clay home
I will use my skills
To mend the cracks that I have
Though I'm overcome with chills

Clay home
This is goodbye and farewell
May I never need you again
But only time will tell

I've reached the house that once was a speck
within thick layers of a forrest no longer visited.
Its red clay walls were cracked and crumbling,
ready to become a pile of dust and ash-
remnants of a place ignored and long forgotten.
The roof was caving,
tiles missing or rank with mildew,
and consumed by tiny holes that let flashes of sunlight break through.
The foundation of this red clay house
was weak and tired,
barely able to support the deteriorating red clay walls.
A cobblestone pathway,
walked upon daily many moons ago,
led me to the door.
Of all the decay and ruin that plagued the red clay house,
the door remained firm,
and the lock thick and strong.
It's been long since entered.
Such a strange little key hole,
such a foreign yet familiar place.
I circled, circled, circled
the red clay house,
searching for the key,
or any way in.
So barren the space around the red house,
just dirt and little pieces of fallen clay.
Not a place to hide the key,
not a crack big enough to enter.
I went to my knees, and prayed for an answer,
     I knew this was my home.
Tears fell from my eyes
as I pleaded for my life.
They hit the sweet Earth,
and I watched a miracle occur.
Where my prayers had fallen,
I found the answer.
A pool of wet red clay had formed of my tears and Earth.
I took the hands which have shaped my life,
and dug them deep inside.
I carried that red clay to my home,
and began repaving the cracks in the wall,
carefully examining the damages,
finding the causes,
and forgiving myself for all the years I spent without a single visit.
The cracks take long to repair,
consistent care,
touching directly the spaces that hurt.
From the foundation, to rooftop I work and work,
watch the house reshape day by day.
Still,
I must fall to my knees and pray for the answers,
let my tears fall to the Earth
and create medicine.
Everywhere I step now,
flowers sprout from the ground,
vibrant colors shining in the sun,
I water them daily,
the work is never done.
I am still reaching my hands in pools of red clay,
and paving the cracks that will always
find their way up from the depths.
I have unlocked the front door,
found the key under my tongue
the day I prayed to be let in.
Oh, how the light shined so bright inside,
not through tiny cracks in the roof,
or cracks in the walls of red clay,
but in my hands
when I stepped through that door.
The hands that paved the cracks,
the hands that reached up to the Sky
and asked for rain
on the days that my tears could not create enough clay
to fix the cracks that threatened to tear down
all the work I had done.
The hands that replant the seeds after a harsh winter,
and unlocked that front door.
The hands scarred and callused
that will never stop paving the cracks.
These cracks are no longer ominous,
no longer chooser of my homes destiny,
for when the home is found,
it can not be forgotten,
and when the door is opened,
it can not be locked again.