Nature or Brick

soheil khodaparasti



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 Offline)
  • Published: September 5th, 2026 14:55
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 6
  • Users favorite of this poem: Friendship
Comments +

Comments4

  • sorenbarrett

    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.

    • soheil khodaparasti

      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.

      • sorenbarrett

        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

      • soheil khodaparasti

        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.

      • Thomas W Case

        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.

        • soheil khodaparasti

          Thank you. That is such a generous reading of it.

        • Friendship

          Nicely written



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