I took a piece of plastic clay. And idly fashioned it one day, and as my fingers pressed it still, it moved and yielded to my will.

I came again when days are past: the feel of clay was hard at last. The form I gave it, it still bore, but I could change that form no more.

I took a piece of living clay, and gently formed it day by day. And moulded with my press and art, a young child’s soft and yielding heart.

I came again when years were gone: it was a man I looked upon. He still that early impress wore, and I could change it never more.

A Piece of Clay

~ anonymous~


About xristinamaria

i am an amateur. french portrays me as someone who does something for the sheer love of it. a lover of arts: i shoot, read, write, sing, act and dance. now, i wordpress ",)
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3 Responses to Delicate

  1. Coming East says:

    This gave me goosebumps after my experience with C! Thanks so much for showing it to me. You rock!

    • i’d rather think that i’m paying it forward “,) i was blessed with wonderful mentors too. reading stories like yours remind me why teaching is a privilege 🙂

      never had a C in my life, well, not yet. with that, you rock more than i do 😉

  2. Ulises Rodriguez says:

    All those shoes!

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