If I were to make a child out of clay,
I would form a little figurine from the material,
and more than arms and legs
I would give him eyes,
just small dots poked with some small stick,
and these will be the eyes that see his world.
They will not be deep or intricate eyes—
like I said, just simple dots,
but they will be enough for him
to watch the shaping of his world
while he is soft and tender.
The only other dot that I will place
is in his belly, so that he may understand
where he has come from, while he waits
to see where he is going.
The only thing with making a child out of clay
is that he must be hardened at the end
in heat and fire, and this will glaze his skin
and add texture to his simple eyes, and then he will see
that I have not shaped his world, but him alone,
that I have poked the single dot in his belly
and the two dots for eyes,
and as he has seen the forming and the firing,
as he has seen all of this,
he must see that when I make a child out of clay
I make nothing,
for he always comes out changed,
and then he is no longer a child.
But I cannot make a child out of clay
who cannot see.