The Malachite Vase by Jules

Sensing his displeasure And anticipating his intentions The little stone heart Of the finished vase Trembles and pleads Under the dark eye Of her maker. But he, like a god Undiscerning and insensitive Deaf to her entreaties Seeing only her imperfections Smites her to the ground Sending her hurtling To the ground. Then covers his eyes With remorse. And as she lies there broken Comes the sound Of the fluttering of wings And the scent Of a thousand flowers In a beautiful garden in spring And all the scattered fragments Fly together as he gazes Forming a vase Of equisite beauty With unearthly verdant haze. Then from the vase there does emerge A wonderous fairy woman With auburn hair and slender form And eyes of burnished gold Sad soulful golden eyes Reproachful eyes and cold. As would a child he reaches out But she as lightening swift Takes up the vase against her breast Dissolving to a mist Hence does he work with fervour He labours day and night To please the fairy woman With her lovely eyes so bright And people come from near and far To see his magic art. And often in the evening As he sits beneath the stars He feels the gracious presence Of the lady of the vase.