I am the soft clay
On potter's wheel
The wheel rotating
His hands giving shape
I don't know
What I will be
I may become a tea cup,
A little lamp for worshiping
A wine pot to hold cocktail
Or a vase in a brothel
And after service
I will go to garbage
Being the shard
I have no wish, no force,
No role in decision
It is his wish
What he will make me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem