This is a little piece I wrote on my 18 hour flight home.
I look at my hands
The same, who built it all,
The same, who broke it all.
I had the clay in my fist
Started molding and shaping it
What it became,
I never could see
How beautiful was it
I never could tell
As it changed
From the piece of clay
To the beautiful sculpture,
It was meant to be ,
It did weaken a few hundred times
Only to be reinforced
By these very hands
The belief I had
Made it stay.
As it grew,
It was weighed down
By these same hands.
Slowly but surely
The clay began to change.
From a part of the lovely figure,
To the sand which flowed
Right through
My very hands.
I never could see
What my hands held for me.
Still cant see
What the future has for me
Yet
I strive to try again
Knowing I would hold it strong
Only this time
It would not be a sculpture
Waiting to pass into emptiness
But become and stay
What its meant to be.
No, its just not my belief
I’ll make it and show
How perfect
It will be
How everlasting
Its meant to be
My hands will make it
As amazing as it can be
As beautiful as it should be
– Prateek Mehta
