There lays the vase, broken into pieces.
Edges worn, rounded off where they once were neatly seated.
One another, side by side, but crumbles in between them.
Rejecting the heat and the meld that they at once never needed.
What does one do, draw again from the dirt which we came,
Spark a flame as a cure to the mold which we tame?
Do we make anew the thing which already seems so strange,
or wipe off the surface which already settles blame?
Who are we? Are we the hand that mold the shapes
The pressure that fragments, folds and breaks,
the color that bold and drapes,
Or just the reflection that spoils the vase.