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
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!
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!