Nature or Brick
Nature or brick?
That is the question—
but it is not
the whole question.
Not nature alone,
not brick alone.
Every brick
I laid upon another
became the wall
of my own making.
Every path
I opened from within myself
was handed over
to my fate.
I was clay,
made of the stuff
of seed.
The wind came,
the rain fell,
and the sun
came to rest.
The first thread
of my destiny
ran strand by strand—
one thread
in my hand,
one thread
in the hand
of my fate.
And in the struggle
of being pulled apart,
strand by strand,
the threads
were either
fleeing,
or caught
in their own collars,
or crying,
with patience
and persistence,
and sometimes
desperation,
I shaped
the clay of my nature
into what I became.
If the brick
was crooked,
it was not
because the clay
was raw;
it was because
the brickmaker's hand
was unskilled—
or because
other brickmakers
had laid
their own bricks.
Your destiny
is nothing
but these very bricks:
those that have settled,
those that have broken—
patience and grace,
wonder and craft.
So do not
ask me
what your destiny is.
Ask instead:
with these very bricks,
break upon break,
what house
will you build?
Perhaps nature
is simply
what was given
to us
from the beginning.
And perhaps the brick
is what
we add to it,
day after day,
with our own hands.
And here we are—
and being—
brick by brick,
still
becoming.
سرشت یا خشت
سرشت یا خشت؟
،مسأله این است
.اما تمام مسأله این نیست
،نه تنها سرشت
.نه تنها خشت
،هر خشت که بر خشت نهادم
،دیوارِ نهادم شد
،هر راه که از خود گشادم
.تقدیم تقدیرِ من شد
گِل بودم از جنس نطفه
،باد آمد
باران زد و
خورشید نشست؛
سررشتۀ سرنوشتم
رشته رشته بود
رشته ای در دست
من
رشته ای در دست
سرنوشت من
در کشاکش رشته رشته شدن
رشته ها
یا گریزان
بودند
یا در گریبان
یا گریان
با صبر و اصرار
و گاهی
استیصال
گِل سرشتم را سرشتم
،اگر خشت کج بود
از خامی خشت نبود؛
از خامی دست خشت ساز بود
از خشت اندازی خشت سازان دگر بود
سرنوشتت چیزی نیست
جز همین خشتهای
نشسته و شکسته
شکیب و شکیل
شگرف و شگرد
پس از من نپرس
سرنوشتت چیست؛
بپرس
با همین خشتهای شکنبرشکن
چه خانهای میسازی
،شاید سرشت
همان چیزیست
که از آغاز به ما دادهاند؛
،و شاید خشت
همان چیزیست
که هر روز
به دستِ خود
بر آن میافزاییم
و ماییم
و بودن
و خشتبهخشت
در حالِ شدن
سهیل خداپرستی
-
Author:
soheil khodaparasti (
Offline) - Published: September 5th, 2026 14:55
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship

Offline)
Comments4
Nature or nurture always a question and it seems that bricks themselves made of clay and fire are themselves nature and so it may not be a question at all, all being the same. Nicely written with a great metaphor my friend.
Thank you. I really appreciate your thoughtful comment.
And by “nature,” I mean intrinsic nature—the essence of a thing, the quiet truth of what it is before we begin to shape it. Perhaps that is the part we are given, rather than the part we choose.
We arrive with a certain clay in our hands, but life gives us the bricks one by one. Some are shaped by fate, some by circumstance, some by the hands of those who came before us—and sometimes, through our own choices, struggles, and acts of becoming, we make the bricks ourselves.
We may not choose the clay, nor control every brick that finds its way into our hands. Yet there remains a mysterious freedom in what we do with them: how we place them, what we rebuild, what we allow to fall away, and what kind of house we create from what was given—and from what we ourselves have made.
Perhaps, then, nature and nurture are not two answers to the same question. Nature is the essence we inherit; nurture is everything that touches that essence—shaping it, challenging it, awakening it, and sometimes giving us the hands with which to shape ourselves.
We are neither entirely made nor entirely self-made. We inherit the clay, we receive some bricks, we make others. Fate gives us the material, life gives us the weather, and our hands give it form.
And perhaps that is the quiet mystery of becoming: we do not choose the clay, we do not command the fire, and we cannot control every hand that helps build the wall. But brick by brick, choice by choice, we participate in the making of the house we call ourselves.
You are most welcome. I got the general sense of what you are saying I took it slightly different that the clay is provided by nature that the labor is provided by the those around us our learning from environment and we are the product of the two
Yes, I see what you mean, and I really like that perspective. Perhaps the clay is given to us by nature, while nurture provides the hands, the environment, and the experiences that shape us. And as we grow, we sometimes begin to shape the bricks ourselves.
We are neither simply the clay nor the hands that shape it, but the becoming that emerges between the two.
There’s a damn thoughtful philosophical core here, using clay, brick, and the brickmaker’s hand to wrestle with the old question of nature versus destiny without settling for either one. The closing “brick by brick, / still / becoming” is the keeper—it brings the whole argument back to agency, suggesting we inherit the material, but the house is still something we build.
Thank you. That is such a generous reading of it.
Nicely written
Thank you very much.
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