On the potter's wheel, my love,
our hands are twin;
our feet in tandem set the pace
and barefoot I find myself
on holy ground, to sacred beat.
Embrace to my embrace
your hands with mine entwine
and clay 'tis not,
'tis ashes on the wheel,
'tis fire in our hands.

No amphora nor the humblest pot
the efforts of our hands produce;
lost to the gliding
of your fingers next to mine
we find no peace, we fight no storm.