We each hold the remnants freshly pulled from the kiln,
Fractured, the diaspora pot.

Glazed with ghostly blues and fiery hues,
In the fever it has shattered, and small fragments lay within
and beside on the concrete,
Beneath our souls and our feet each piece,
Cracked clay displaced.

Together we collect the pieces and hand them to the potter,
Some are missing, others are not,
Bereavement, our namesake passed down in pots.

He constructs,
Piece by piece,
Remnant by segment,
Hollow spaces in between.

From the clay body we build ourselves back up again,
And the fractures fill with gold.