The potter looked at the ground,
some heaps of mud he found.
Eyes lit up, blood rushed through his veins,
a pretty form the mud soon became.
The painter looked at the ground,
pretty forms of mud he found.
Many colours, nimble fingers he used,
Something into the forms he infused.
They were not like mud anymore.
The clouds looked at the ground,
brilliant, reaching forms they found.
But when the last drop had fallen,
the forms were left bare and solemn.
And when the gardener came with his spade,
Into the mud the forms were laid.
They were not like forms anymore.
The emperor looked at them all,
no tear from his eye did fall.
"I played all I wanted to play,
from where you came, you shall stay.
From the dark mud did I make you,
where did your foolishness hope to take you?"
