The Final Vessel

For fifty years this spinning wheel has turned

The secret language that my hands have learned

From red Khurja clay beneath my calloused palm

I find my purpose and a sacred calm (hmmmmm)

Now the elders gather,

the children stand and stare

One final vessel for our temple's holy prayer This clay will hold

the water of the sacred stream

The final shape of an old craftsman's dream (ho-ooh)

My spine is bent,

my fingers worn and gray

But in this dust

I found a golden way

The village blesses me with every single tear

I leave my heart

within this temple here (hey-yaaa)

This clay will hold the water of the sacred stream

The final shape

of an old craftsman's dream (ho-ooh)

(shanti, shanti, shanti)