The artist uses mud to make toys only he can make,
He is satisfied with his premature work
Sitting back, he wipes the beads of sweat on his forehead with his muddy hands.

His wife calls him for lunch.
He leaves the slimy unfinished toys unprotected,
Hoping to come back in a short while.

These (to be) toys are marvellous.
Ones which infants would cry over
One’s lovers, filled with passion, would buy each other.
A single glance at the toys
Makes one want to look at it again and again,
Just like how lovers peep at each other in public.

The ball of reality crashes into the toys
From a group of boys playing nearby
The fastest and bravest one dashes in
To retrieve it, stepping on the toys in the process.

The jealous rival artisan next door, on his way to work
Covertly kicks over the toys to ensure his survival.

Adulthood in the form of wind
Crystalizes the toy’s predicament.

The artist has returned
From the meal he enjoyed, hoping to make progress at his work.

The toys are still intact
But hardly recognizable, compared to their former selves
These are ones infants would cry over, but for the wrong reasons
Ones which would classify lovers as cheap
A single glance at the toys
Makes one look at it again and again
Not for its beauty, but for sheer mockery.

The artist is quick on his feet
He jumps in to save the toys
He bends and twists the mould of clay
But reality, competition and adulthood have made the toys unrecognisable, rigid and hard.

Nothing can save the toys now
Not even the magic of the artist.
The irreparable toys crack, and crumble into chunks of set mud.
Not willing to be saved
Not willing to be changed
Okay with being satisfied pigs
Instead of dissatisfied aristocrats.