seven years ago, a stranger I met on the street
Asked me if I wanted to buy an old clay pot
“how much?” I asked
“Twenty.” she said. I got it
later a friend who had more of the same told me the thing is
Very old
then an expert saw it, and said:
“Three thousand years old.”
now I keep it on a shelf
It’s three feet away from my head when I sit down to write
I filled it with pebbles from lake Sevan (I mean red lentils)
So it won’t fall (knock on wood)
whenever I look at it I dream
Of the people who made it
whose hands. . .
Singing what songs in what language?
what was kept in it. . .
And how much was it sold for, the first time (if ever)
when was it buried
Whom for? Who died. . . maybe a loved one
there is much love in that clay pot
I can feel it. . . I can see it, and touch it
the old clay pot always feeds me with questions
What will be left of me?
What of my love
To feel
How
In three thousand years from now
what is the oldest artifact you have at home?
What is the oldest one your hands have ever touched? [
your own skull, one could say]
when do we start to make them again, the new/future old clay pots
And just where are we going to bury them?
::: ::: :::
[Picture:
Something that’s important to me by reading_is_dangerous] (picture taken twenty minutes ago)
Posts
