Endless chips in scattered stacks, of many shapes and hues
Sifted and unsorted, the precious chosen few
Placed in among the mortar, pressed into unknown forms
The artista vision hidden among fragments still askew.

The tilesa edges bite the hand that grasp them, as they seethe
The artist then, with teeth agrit, endure their fingersa bleed
Defiant against purpose, the pieces fight their fate
Against the will of those above, their motives yet unseen.

Fragments never know what larger picture they create
A cacophony of color forms a symphony of shapes
Though every piece is stubborn, the weary artist sighs,
Entombed in plaster, loose in heaps: by calloused hands theya e placed.

Their mosaic remains endless in creation bittersweet
Eternal work and maintenance shall become the artista feat:
To finish it would be to say goodbye and start anew
The austerity of love shall keep the picture incomplete.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 25th of Lleian, in the year 509 MA.