+rep

I watched you leave the bench beside my own,
Where sawdust settles on the silent stone.
You threw the plane aside and cursed the knot,
Despising every splinter that you got.
"The wood fights back," you said, and walked away,
To seek the soft submission of the clay.
Now I see you hunched above the wheel,
Searching for a shape that you can feel,
But in your hands, the wet earth only slumps—
A graveyard of your wet and heavy lumps.
You think the mud is kind because it bends?
It has no spine on which a craft depends.
Look here, at how I make the dovetail tight,
The way I force the grain to catch the light.
I didn't run when oak refused to yield;
I sharpened up my steel and stood the field.
You wanted art without the sweat and grit,
But mastery is learning where to sit.
You should have watched my hands and learned the stroke,
Instead of chasing water, stayed with oak.
For now you have a bowl that holds no trust,
When you could have built a kingdom from the dust.

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спасибо за курицу

Привет, добавь в друзья, есть предложение)

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