"Not wrinkling is very good," the pots say, always burning. Among the dry crowd, I am such a painted unbreakable pot. With you, I am resurrecting under the moon in the suppleness of fresh warm clay, while wines are pouring on the starry bowls and seven heavens have opened, drunk. The potter's wheel crushes the sheet--- it is sometimes tender during rotation, then it is rough, and the molding pulls higher, higher, higher... And, having again not given his dream at night, the skillfully smeared potter admires quietly what happened.
# The Clay Game When we were children, we shaped the earth, our small hands wet with rain and river, pressed into forms that lived only for the span of an afternoon— a bird that never flew, a horse that never ran. We knew, even then, the secret: that nothing we made would last, that tomorrow the sun would crack it, the rain unmake it, our creations returning to the formless dark from which our fingers had coaxed them. Yet we built anyway. Built with the seriousness of gods, with the abandon of those who know they have nothing to lose. A pot. A face. A small, unlikely thing that was ours for one bright moment. Now I understand: this is all we ever do— shape the shapeless, give names to the nameless, knowing our hands will one day forget what they held. The clay remembers nothing. It waits, patient and eternal, for the next child's fingers, the next bright afternoon, the next small god playing at creation.
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