Each clay model was fast asleep
Frozen in slumber deep
But I had a promise to keep.
My doll I promised would have her say
And on this summer day
Her I mustn’t fail.
She had to have a clay model.
There wasn’t a thing wasn’t there
Men, women, birds and even a curd seller
Bald Brahmin, English pair
Village belle in flowing hair
Men flirtatious, women loose
At small price pick and choose.
Lost in the potter’s terrain
She was back a child again
The afternoon was almost spent
When ended her playful moments.
I picked the fortune teller
She chose the curd seller.
On the way what I had to say
Hope she remembers till last day
At the potter’s having seen them all
Found none crafted like my lovely doll.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem