Monday, January 23, 2006



THE MALACHITE VASE

Sensing his displeasure
And anticipating his intentions
The little stone heart
Of the finished vase
Trembles and pleads
Under the dark eye
Of her maker.
But he, like a god
Undiscerning and insensitive
Deaf to her entreaties
Seeing only her imperfections
Smites her to the ground
Sending her hurtling
To the ground.
Then covers his eyes
With remorse.
And as she lies there broken
Comes the sound
Of the fluttering of wings
And the scent
Of a thousand flowers
In a beautiful garden in spring
And all the scattered fragments
Fly together as he gazes
Forming a vase
Of equisite beauty
With unearthly verdant haze.
Then from the vase there does emerge
A wonderous fairy woman
With auburn hair and slender form
And eyes of burnished gold
Sad soulful golden eyes
Reproachful eyes and cold.
As would a child he reaches out
But she as lightening swift
Takes up the vase against her breast
Dissolving to a mist
Hence does he work with fervour
He labours day and night
To please the fairy woman
With her lovely eyes so bright
And people come from near and far
To see his magic art.
And often in the evening
As he sits beneath the stars
He feels the gracious presence
Of the lady of the vase.




© 2000 Jules

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