A long forgotten art, needed to reinvent it from the days past,
making a clay ***, the size of my heart, where everything started,
with my bare hands; I felt like a man in the primeval times.
The act but brought a sense of satisfaction, it seemed like a ritual
with therapeutic effects,but couldn't delineate what it was.
Was the red clay *** in my hand, a yearning, in symbolic form?
Was I trying to capture the elusive meaning of life, in a way wrong?
life throws questions after questions at one, not wanting any answers!
And then one stumbles upon symbols, morphed in the depth of emotions,
with these forms, answering to the enigmas of life is done with ease.
A vessel perfect, it seemed to collect one's tears,wasting not even a drop
on the pool of tears, reflects my face, than any of the surfaces before,
why then, her face too floats along with mine, out of nowhere?
a nowhere called past,which never goes anywhere, even if charms are tried.
