It begins—
not with a shape, nor a line,
but a spark, a whisper, caught in design,
something unseen, not yet thought,
a seed before rising to light.
Fingers trace the unseen design,
pressing the silence, pulling the thread,
molding what stirs, what longs to be said.
The wheel turns, the rhythm wakes,
clay that trembles, bends, and breaks—
too much force, it shatters fast,
too little, and it cannot last.
Again, again, the hands return,
not to command, but to discern.
Then—
the self dissolves.
No hand, no clay,
only motion, only sway,
a pull, a pulse,
something rising from the space
between knowing and embrace.
No thought remains,
only touch, only trance,
only creation’s quiet dance,
shaping itself through the one who bends,
to where the art itself intends.
And when the wheel slows to its rest,
when breath is deep and hands are pressed,
who shapes, who surrenders—
the hands, or what they manifest?
