Remembering like Seneca what Glassblowers do with their Breath

Seneca, not just a Stoic,
but at his suicide heroic,
being quite unsanctimonious,
once showed his buddy Posidonius
how flasks of glass are blown with breath.

Like human mortals at their death
glass vessels always tend to shatter
when dropped, like chunks of deadly data,
thus linked to fellows who’re felonious
due to misdeeds that we deem erroneous,
all dropped by God on Yom Kippur,
so we are told, and I am sure,
informed by the Unetanah Toqef,
of which this poem is a knock-off.

Seneca wrote in his “Moral letter to Lucilius”:

I should like to show Posidonius some glassblower who, by his breath, molds the glass into many shapes which scarcely could be fashioned by the most skillful hand.

This is the Yom Kippur evening prayer whose words may have inspired the Unetanah Toqef and certainly inspired my poem:

As clay in the hand of the potter,
Who expands or contracts it at will,
So are we in Your hand, gracious God,
Heed Your covenant, heed not our accuser.

As stone in the hand of the mason,
Who preserves or smashes it at will,
So are we in Your hand, Source of life;
Heed Your covenant, heed not our accuser.

As iron in the hand of the welder,
Who welds or detaches it at will,
So are we in Your hand, Sustainer;
Heed Your covenant, heed not our accuser.

As helm in the hand of the seaman,
Who handles or abandons it at will,
So are we in Your hand, gracious God,
Heed Your covenant, heed not our accuser.

As glass in the hand of the glazier,
Who shapes it or dissolves it at will,
So are we in Your hand, great Forgiver,
Heed Your covenant, heed not the accuser.

As cloth in the hand of the draper,
Who drapes it even or uneven at will,
So are we in Your hand, stern God;
Heed Your covenant, heed not our accuser.

As silver in the hand of the smith,
Who makes it pure or impure at will,
So are we in Your Hand, healing God;

Heed Your covenant, heed not our accuser.