Rating: 4.2
When I rest, I dream of clay-
Towering mountains of unshaped human potential
Wet with the white rain
Of possibilities

I see beauty
In the formless clay-
I see ourselves,
The potential to mold,
The potential to heal,
To redirect the rivers,
To shape our multiple cities with prudence,
To reform ourselves.

I see wonder in the clay
For beauty lies not only within what is,
But in what something has the ability to become.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Naseer Ahmed Nasir 23 July 2009
Man is made of clay. What else can be moulded from it is a bonus of its flexibility. Good poem, Lazarus.
0 0 Reply
Wesley Mincin 18 July 2009
Clay = Humans Very good, Larry.
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