Crafted to mask the ugliness,
open-ended were his designs,
not for sale or show, made for someone special.
His designs had no conscious content, beholder’s faith, the only intent.
If she was fluid, his designs seasonal.

The day the designer died, mourners saw tears in her eyes.
Argued a mourner, if Ganesha can drink milk, why can’t she cry.
Made of clay, synthetic she was not.
The designer knew, how to make clay alive.

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