This little volume of air wants to call itself a pot.
It can never be the pot, but only the ocean of air.
Still it clings on to the clay pot.
The glimmer of a soul wrapped and woven in the fathoms, occasionally seems to see some light, probably that generated from the small creatures in the ignorant depths.
The light of the sun is deeper and farther outside the surface than the depths inside.
Verses from the Heart 