Potters' hands are dry
From handling wet clay.
As oils in the skin are stripped away.
Potters' hands are calloused;
Not as rough as hard labor leaves them,
Those scabrous scales that form on flesh -
No match for wood, brick, stone, or steel
That rubs skin to blister, then thicken and scar.
But these are from labors of love
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem