It was small in the palm of my hand
Nice to look at but not understand
It was light as a feather so perfect and soft
But someday I knew I would have to get off
With tools of a trade borrowed I'd trace
Roads intertwined all over its face
Ones with no endings and ones with no start
And ones I had trouble keeping apart
I grew much bigger as smaller it became
Not nice to look at but its meaning the same
It was untouchable and crooked and warn
But someday I knew it could be reborn
With home crafted utensils I'd create
A change to its color so I could relate
Ones out of shape and ones out of time
But at least I knew these ones were mine
I stopped growing and it became small
It looked rather useless as I recall
Under my feet its roads keep on bending
This world I hold will always need mending
-Shabetei
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