Alas, poor Yorick, raku-fired and bright,
A skull burned in flames, now gleaming white.
Once jester’s joy, now clay and ash,
Frozen in silence, no jest, no flash.
In kiln’s hot breath, you took your form,
A relic of jest, now calm and warm.
Though death has claimed your mirthful grin,
Your hollow cracks draws all within.
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