Birth...

He mixed the water in the clay,
The mould ready to take shape.
The days and nights of endeavour
Come to life one fine day.

Does he like what he made?
Is it a far cry from the image he carried?
One can never know the joy or dejection;
Would she inspire a song or let a dream fade?

That night he dreams a strange dream.
From within a veil she speaks.
"You are my creator, you infuse life,
But can you, for a price, my soul redeem?"

H broke into a sweat, he lay awake.
"I give her limbs, I paint her face,
I lend her poise, I grant her grace.
She entrusts her being with me.
Her person, her conflicts,
Is it for me to usurp or take?"

You like to garland her, or flower her feet,
Yet you see not the wound that has sunk its teeth.
She may be your idol for morning worships
Looks like a tear there, but quivers not her lips.