The passionate ceramicist stamps his foot;
The figure of a seraph he’s smashed to boot;
The bonfire of the vanities coats him with soot.
The model-breaker battles his rue taken root;
From ill-fated trysts, burned in vain pursuit,
Some scorching mouths kissed have left him mute.
Insomniacs, somnambulists alike have taught
That curses and animus are all for naught;
What does it matter if he cries out or not?
Inside the kiln’s sintering mists, old love’s still hot;
The firing figurine persists
In fusing what he seeks and sought;
Like Paris’s motto she lists,
“But sinketh not.”
Like Paris’s motto she lists,
But sinketh not.
A reference to the Latin motto on the coat of arms of the city of Paris, Fluctuat nec mergitur. One modern translation is “She is buffeted by the waves, but does not sink.” An older translation is “She listeth, but sinketh not.”