Look down the street.
There's no light.
It's the middle of the night.
You're in a foreign place, and you've lost your way.
There's a struggle for life with these hands and their strife.
Much like the potter's while he molds his clay.
He's been working for days.
He's been slaving away; trying not to lose sight of what he's been living for.
He just can't get it right.
He lies awake every night while tears stream down his cheeks.

I can see the rain coming from the distance.
I can feel his pain and it hurts like hell.
Why cant we find peace while we wait?
It's patience we need to get through this day.