Who crafted from drab slabs of clay,
Various little creations.
He could scrape the scrags of material,
Shape with slip,
And make incredible pots and plates.
During hard times,
The potter could not sell any of his items,
And began to grow hungry,
And began to grow sick.
He knew that deep within the nearby forest,
There were various berries and fruits,
But he was just too weak to make his way there.
He decided instead,
To break the bowls and vase previously made,
And reuse the clay to make something unique.
He moulded in his hands,
Folded in his palm,
And tweaked with his fingers,
Until finally he had created three little figurines.
Stubby little legs,
Three digits on each hand,
And two beady eyes which he made,
From forcing stray buttons from his clothing,
Into the top of the blobs of clay.
He called them his children,
And that night,
Prayed to his god for them to come to life and save him.
Clattering noises woke him,
Drew him out of his bed to investigate.
To his surprise,
The figures had come alive.
The three little clay models were crashing around his house,
Chasing their shadows,
Walking into walls,
And wearing his blankets like glorious cloaks.
The potter told his children to head to the forest,
“Search in the woods for berries and fruits,
Bring them back here so I may eat and grow strong.”
The three little figures walked out of the house,
And off into the forest,
Which was barely lit by the subtle moonlight.
The tallest clay creature,
Swinging on trees.
The shortest clay creature,
Dancing in puddles.
The fattest clay creature,
Watching feathery fiend.
None of the clay children knew what a berry was.
None of them knew what fruit was.
The tallest clay creature felt his arms stretch,
They broke off under the strain of swinging,
And he fell to the ground where he lay helpless.
The shortest clay creature got wet and damp,
Each puddle made him muddy and slippery,
Until he turned into a large lump of mush on the ground.
The fattest clay creature watched intently,
As a swooping owl came crashing down upon him,
Clutching him in talons and taking him away as a snack.
The poor potter waited and waited,
But his children never returned.
The last lesson he learned,
Was not to give a task to one,
Whose understanding is none.