An angry amphora, affronted by air,

Awoke with ambition to artfully dare

A bashful barbarian, boldly bemused,

Broke her with bravado – beautifully bruised.

“By Bacchus!” he bellowed, “Behold how it breaks!”

(While balancing baklava, buttered with flakes.)

The pot’s plaintive pieces proclaimed with a puff:

“I was priceless, you plonker, now pay for your stuff!”

He hoisted a handle, still hot from the hit,

And huffed at the halves with a haphazard wit:

“If pottery’s poetry, I’ve penned quite the plot.

A verse made of shards, a metaphor… shot.”

The shards sang a shanty, sharp-edged and severe,

Echoing eons of olives and beer.

From temples to taverns, from pharaoh to peasant,

Their curved silhouettes once made suppers more pleasant.

But now – scattered, splintered, sunlit and scorned.

They whispered of triumph, of empires mourned.

The barbarian blinked, as a breeze brushed his brow,

“Was it worth it?” he pondered. “Well… maybe. But how?”