Belated Realisation



The mould broke.

Your hands, covered in clay

The hands of the Creator

You sit in a brown apron

And you turn the vessels of your creation.


But who will wipe the sacred sweat

From God's face?

It drips

And softens the clay

It drips and softens it

The clay is shaped and rounded, becomes a woman.


God said,

'All praise to me.'