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The clay that molds to the hands of the man.
So happily it squishes through fingers.
The earth stuck underneath nails, it lingers.
To whom holds, it pleases him how it can.
Discuss if that’s a sin, to ever change,
To lose the initial shape; a pure shape.
When the clay starts to dry, he leaves a gape,
Gape that the clay willingly allowed, strange.
Protect from those rough hands that change too much.
The clay must be cooked, hardened to withstand
Falls and punches and breaks and pain and stand.
Clay is solid, solid is the clay. Such,
The nature of art, to create a grand
Statue destroyed soon. I know it firsthand.
Do not be enticed towards pain, by touch.