What artist holds us in his hands
And forms from clay two shapeless forms
That always fear intrusion from the other

We are rolled into lithe strings
And are played upon by a bow
I tremble as you tremble
Our sounds become song

Music fades and we collapse
Nothing more than we were when we had begun
Would it have been different had we danced?

And so we become beads
Knocking together, our heads and our heels
You look over at me and though I hang far from you
We overlap and touch cheeks as if enamored

It isn't long before we crack and we are clay again
Our time as singers forgotten, and our time as dancers regretted
Though we stare eachother in the face as we lie in scraps
It is only memories that we can recall

Our histories are of no importance when the artist finally stands
Clutching us tightly in his palms and forcing us together
In the beginning there is hesitance,
But soon I cannot tell my colors from yours

In this frustration can we finally see
That it is only when we realize we
Have no importance as individuals

And that the shapes we become are created by
Strange hands - not our own
That life is only filled with meeting,
And we must love before we carry on.