tread carefully the narrow wooden rows
between the laden shelves of the gallery
where pot upon pot of glazed clay
sit quietly lost to the boisterous day

walk soft for fear of jostling the crowd
with footing only as sure as their foundation
should they tip and fall without wings to fly
shattering upon the ground with crash as cry
voiceless they press upon your heart
the ceaseless question – why brother, why?

we both were formed in crushing crucible
maker’s hands dug deep to shape our form
but you would dare destroy your kin
a shape now finished from without, from within
here underfoot fast forgotten grit
discarded as a wasteful clod of shit

while you still spinning wet upon the wheel
and no taste of the kiln yet in your mouth
found fragile and fair with paper thin skin
my destruction your curse, your ironic sin

mourn my loss as a long look into the mirror
know there is but one you need to fear

(INSPIRED BY A RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM AS TRANSLATED BY EDWARD FITZGERALD, SUCH AS IT IS)