He pressed his hands on the raw red mud
Emboding his ideas and considering the clays’ naturals too.
Holding with flexibility but firmness too
Knowing when to hold it and curve it in, and when to let go.
He carved beautiful smiles in it,
Sculpt it, pouring his heart,
Wiping his sweat.
Day and night, he worked on it
And stroked it’s tender texture with colors of love.
These impressions, he made, on wet clay,
Is similar to parents’ imprints on minds of a child naive.
Like every maginificient piece of art,
The beauty and zeal within each child,
Is defined by the impressions drawn upon them.
To work harder, to never give up,
To not be jealous, or keep a grudge,
All his values good and bad, are the imprints of his potter parent shaping him up.