You see I am here,
But this is not true.
Not true- your seeing,
Not true- your talking,
Not true- your hearing.
But I exist here
And you are hearing my talk,
You are feeling my touch.
You think I am separate
From you - not fact.
I am not a subject of sense,
True and you also admit.
The centre of all is
That pot of clay, you may clarify.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem