As I look on this ancient vase,
Through its potter's eyes I start to gaze.
Its molding in his hands I feel,
And hear the whirring of his wheel.
I ask, just why this shape and height?
Why this color, to be honored by what light?
As with a person, was it born for joy and beauty,
Or to simply serve some daily duty?
Who then bought it, and placed it where,
To receive beloved or less anxious care?
Where lived it through the storms of time,
To stand before these awe-filled eyes of mine?
Dwelled it in the palace of a line of kings
For the pleasure that such beauty brings?
Or was it a peasant family's cherished thing,
To which through famine they'd still cling?
How passed it from one household to another?
The gift to a bride from her indulgent mother?
Was it bought or bartered, or enough desired
To be by theft or as a bribe acquired?
Stood it empty on a decorative shelf
Admired for its beauty, just by itself?
Or was it filled with many a fragrant flower,
To add the charm of nature to a lady's bower?
This Far Eastern tale is to us very relevant,
Of three blind men who encountered an elephant.
"It's a wall," one man cried,