Once there lived a gentle soul,
Who had a gift in ample share,
When the wet clay dried in the mould,
Under her hands' magic care.
It came alive with its own breath and life,
And gave joy to countless unknown,
Oohs and aahs adorned its praise,
With divine beauty, the creation shone.
You are what you do, said them all,
A true genius, a magician, o giver of joy,
Your creation is a work of priceless art,
For you bring alive every earthen toy.
And yet in her deep inside,
A tiny voice seemed mute in dread,
For she found no joy in all her fame,
And she did not know where next to tread.
To find in her heart, a hope anew,
She began to write her mind, in ink and pen,
And lo behold, the peace she sought,
She found in those paper pages, there and then.
She left her gift, and wrote her heart,
For the words had helped her find,
True sense, of her being alive;
The many screamed - she has lost her mind.
But the many did not matter then,
For she felt the happiest now, by far,
And when I asked her the reason why,
She replied - you do, what you are.
