A great man gathered clay around his wheel
to make his finest thoughts and dreams congeal
The clay that flows ‘round his wide hands to mold
forms art of true beauty none had foretold

When a great tremor rises from the ground
his hands slip and make many mistakes
While reversing the error his hands shake
which only made his creation unsound

In his forlorn attempts to reform it all
on all it’s sides the clay begins to fall
The man casts all his anger towards himself
and his err would not show upon his shelf