Ah, such serene beauty in breath and breathless grace, how your hands weave stillness into clay. The quiet cradles dawn, and whispers dance with the light.

Beneath the hush of unspoken skies,
a potter traces breath in clay,
molds dreams where silence nests,
and whispers shape the night’s decay.

Each curve a sigh, each pause a song—
the quiet finds its form beneath the sun.
And when the hands that shape its form
grow still, the clay remembers how to hold the dawn.

Fingers trace the curve of dusk,
Fleeting as the brush, just hushed.
The quiet, soft as clay’s embrace,
Holds time—a tender choreography.

Let not the storm’s unyielding clamor
Shatter the vessel, already calmed.
Here, formless heaven takes its guise—
A mirror of the world’s still eyes.

Cradled deep in the womb of clay,
The fragile universe finds its way:
Not made, but breathed—each sigh a sphere,
Each hush a star, each pause, a year.