Tamar

Tamar

If I were just clay,
Thrown into play,
Onto a potter’s wheel,
As a potter’s normal deal,
And, in some kiln glazed and fired,
To make me look divinely inspired,
Then, I would be just some pot,
That the potter wrought.

But as it were, I am not,
As you can see, just some pot.
Not created from a blood clot,
Nor the original sin’s blot.
Nor spun in centrifuges of fate,
Nor a product of destiny’s spate.
I am Love’s proof, the denouement,
Of a purposed engagement.

Am I part of some grandiose plan?
Written, when the author’s mind ran,
Like a torrential monsoon rain,
As he wrote swaths of sorrow, pain,
And, incessant concern and worry,
And, rapid activities that hurry,
Words, into staccato rhymes,
And, verses that are sublime.

The author led me in the desert’s calm,
And, in it’s aridness planted me, a date palm,
With a hot head and  cold feet,
Producing verses complex and sweet,
Verses with words fleshy and dark,
Like  winter songs of a skylark,
The trilling calls, of a mate for it’s mate,
Sung in unison, it is the hymn of fate.

 

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