The clay is a sheer waste without the crafting touch of the potter, who carves a beauty out of it.
The colors are a sheer mess without the creative touch of the painter, who creates an eye-treat out of them.
The words are sheer curved marks of the ink without the touch of the poet, who produces a soothing morning song out of them.
The gold is a sheer metal without the touch of the smith, who turns a dazzling jewel out of it.
People praise me, my Lord, for my sincerity, but why!
Don’t they know that this body is a mass of flesh without your divine touch, which breathes life into it?
Don’t they know that instruments have no right for any praise, whatsoever, but only the Engineer, who uses them?