Give me the grain as the pot roll down
sweat that sweeten the wheat, touches the tongue that
sweeten the grain, brings flesh as it boils the potter hot in
the lapped hand it stops
shape and turn into some direction, whether soft or hard
too sharp to touch, comes the most beautiful mold as it
form the most splendid return the eyes have seen
as little fingers linger folded the clay in the water soak
it display; waste no bits and pieces, paste what ever it
may see, putting in the ground for making it dry in the
air it say goodbye
here is my flexible hand and softly touches your whist
line for you to feel the shape you want me to be, roll my
side, to up and down, as the wheat stand in the ground
waiting for you to calm down
pour me down for me to give the ground as you will have
the grains, in you’re sweetening tongue you found.....
poem by Antonio Liao
Added by Poetry Lover
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