The Sculptor and His Clay

Beneath his hands, the silence stirred,

No chisel yet, no shaping word.

Just clay—unformed, both mute and still,

Awaiting fire, awaiting will.

He pressed with care, he carved with pain,

Each stroke a loss, each line a gain.

A face emerged, then heart, then soul—

The broken lump became a whole.

But even stone can feel the strain,

Of every dream, of every chain.

For in the sculptor’s quiet way,

He left himself inside the clay.