Does the lump of clay tremble at the thought of becoming a pot?
Does it apprehend why it has to be kneaded and slapped into shape,
Softened by being slammed against a hard surface, pulled
And kneaded yet again?
Does it scream in pain as it is thrown onto the potter’s wheel,
Spun round and round at dizzying speed,
With the potter’s hands shaping and moulding it,
Digging into it,
Raising it higher and higher until it attains the desired form?
And as it rests, drying out after that ordeal, parched,
Has it any idea of what it’s about to go through
In the kiln, not once but twice?
And when it is finished, and stands as a glazed vessel,
Beautiful, useful, delicate or strong,
Does it have any regrets?