Clay to Clay

1.
“You must leave now.”
“For the reason why?”
“Because a true sculptor does not seek to ask— you do not prove, you do.”
“How are you able to ‘do’ when you are not able to understand the right from the wrong?”
“You will know one day that before the image of death, nothing else matters except the gift you have stolen away from him when you entered the world of mundane— Dust to dust, and earth to earth.”
“Clay, to clay.”
 
2.
How should I know then? Magister?
It was a cool Monday morning. The rest had passed and the cycle had come to its beginning once again. The young man lay on the round wooden platform covered with late evening dust, the misty air sparkled with the flowing miracle of life and death. Vines of Ivy, roots of sage, and leaves of parsley surrounded him. Songs that are sung passed the platform of cycle, circling around the bright-eyed young apprentice. He stared into the glittering dust, as if trying to capture the moments where gaps enters the barrier of life and death. To the gentle one, that is the moment most precious.
A business man ran through the buildings, from tall sunlit walls to low darken alleys. He had received an ill news from his lover, departed shortly. An old woman slept beside the winding streets, autumn wind blew on her pale wrinkled face, her eyes that had seen too much of the world half closed to rest from its hustle bustle. A young girl sat on a hospital arm chair with her family and friends beside her. With the warmth of her company, all the pain she must endure alone.
Facing death, all men are one.
Twirled and turned, the shadows grasped on each element of fulfillment, and then returned to silence. Little and little could he hear the clatters, as his own voice had become more vivid and lively than it should have been ever since he left the house of his magister. He wondered how long it had been since he entered the world of the mundane.
 
3.
He had made himself a sculptor, and in a forest he lay. From where he had started, from where he shall end his journey. He recalled the myth that he had once heard from a wise man he had travelled with shortly. Never had he seen the man ever since, but the story had made its way through his memory. It was a silent night where campfires warmed up the two lonely travelers. With the guitar the man had sung, to he himself and his friend.
 
Before the days when men were born
Before the years where gods are formed
Creation called, from life to death
Seven days did he make the world
With works unseen and wisdom known
Waves of changes meet the stars
 
Dust to dust, and earth to earth
Cycles turn, and the platform runs,
Music flows with songs unsung
The wind blows as words begun
 
Sculpted by form and left with soul
Set free to know the wider unknown.
Love and hate, lies and truths
Satisfactions, and the most despair
And meeting death he thanks his work
Unjudged and gentle he removes the soul
 
Dust to dust, and earth to earth
The wind returns, and clay to clay
Music flows with songs unsung
The wind blows as words begun
 
5.
It is said that before death a person of omnipotent and omniscient would appear. The glory of the person would charm and envy the immortal that is about to return to the wind. 
Every man has its own breath. Every man has his own story. But the moment before the last breath reminds the man of the days that are more important, of the moments that have mattered. 
The bright-eyed apprentice looked into the dust.
He saw the gentle one before his eyes, all glory and kind as he had ever remembered, before life, and during life. The day of banish appeared before his eyes. And when it was time for him to answer--
“Right is wrong and wrong is right, human runs human and life runs life. Everything is a matter of change, and nothing is certain in right or wrong.”
“How should you know the answer then?” the gentle one asked. 
Lying on the platform the bright-eyed young apprentice reached out his arm towards his magister. Along the way he had met a girl whom he had loved dearly and a family where he had made himself a home, he had seen the oceans and the mountains, sang with friends and wept alone, he had been to foreign lands and touched the precious smiles, he had met the cycle of the seasons, and learned the secret of the stars. Though anger arouse and despair blinds his senses from time to time, it was a life fine enough to have pleased him.
Facing death, all men are one.
With a tear of joy, he smiled towards the kind old man, touched his hand, and embraced his form.
 
6.
“Thank you.” He heard the gentle one say.
Returning to the house of his magister, he looked at the form of that gentle one leaving its breath into the winds.
With care he set his hands on the new clay, and began to work. One by one he reformed the body into the life he had remembered to be, adding some color and left out some details, giving out his own voice without calculating the cycle of the stars. From mornings to the evenings did he work, and the cycling stars started to sing. On the seventh day he looked into his own clay. It looked back at him. With a smile, he let go.
 
Dust to dust, and earth to earth
The wind returns, and clay to clay
Music flows with songs unsung
The wind blows as words begun