At his wheel, squat
the aged potter
Withered and scraggy
Mixing clay and sweat.
His heart, hand and foot
Alert and active.
Shaping and moulding the vessel
Out of the clay, sopping wet
Crumbling and reshaping
each time it resisted,
Squat, the old man
At his wheel
Not anymore lumpy or filthy
And in shape and style new
in to the connoisseur's heart
and on to the mantelpiece
sneaks out the pot, Glazed and fired
with no backward glance
Among other trinkets dear
stays the visual treat
Tagged and marked anew.
the Pride and joy of the collector
WRITTEN over
The sweat and blood of the potter
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem