There he was

at the potter’s wheel!

A shrinking man

among earthen pots

of various size and shapes.

A breathless mangy dog, his companion

slept under a stringed cot with a broken leg!

The dark coppery sun burnt skin

of his hunched back

glistened with sweat

as he molded the yielding mud ,potter 2

giving form to the formless

breathing life into the lifeless!

The wheel spins and dances,

his hands are made of clay.

Long knotted fingers feel the mud,

It  sings under his touch,

A  touch , as ancient as the art,

the artisan, as old as eternity

the blood coursing through his veins

as timeless and primordial as nature!

Who is a Maker? Ancients called him vates.potter

the diviner, the creator, foreseer , prophet?

For me, this man , scorched in sun

is no less than  a maker, a creator of sorts,

How i wondered

when the kneaded mud,this soft clay

pulsated with life

with his godly touch!


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