Thy father,
a potter,
lived in the valley green;
Made vases,
carved traces,
held 'em tight together as seen.
Beauty captured,
(In)clay clustered,
Stood proud and tall;
Jealous neighbor,
broke through (the)door,
planned to make it fall.
He took,
off the hook,
with a miser grin on his face;
Smashed it,
into tiny bit(s),
yet took over the case.
Father look!
we shook,
realized he lay there dead;
Speechless,
senseless,
sleeping on his death bed.
Fragile and sad,
surrounded by the bad,
mourning at such grief;
Now we've learnt,
it can't be brought,
together again to stand there stiff.
© Copyright 2011 Azm
