The potter makes all pots from mud. When they have played out their roles, they all go back to mud. The cup which kisses your lips could be the mud, you trod under foot the other day.
When the potter makes these cups, he puts one hand in and the other out. The outer hand presses in to give it the desired shape. Inner hand makes sure the soft cup does not collapse. And the wheel goes on - round and round - driven by desires, which are eternal..
Unbaked cups lie in the sun before they can be baked in a low fire. Sometimes a cow tramples them. Then the Potter picks them up and kneads them into new shapes again. The cycle goes on!
The well baked cup, when it has done its duty, is recycled no more. It goes out of existence. And the Potter smiles.
(A medieval poet)