Cracking as the clay will mold
And find its way to bend and fold
And smudge along the finger where
It leaves behind the dread of mere
Mortals as we called them then
Though more like us, if we let in
The prod that meets us at the gate
Where we look in, with no debate
We're hoping and at once we know
We're putting on a grander show
If we can hold ourselves in check
We'll find whats lost can now be fixed.