A masterly pot-maker shapes a deer,
a lynx, a winged dog out of clay.
The animals have no desire to stay,
but want to run away and disappear
into the world and cease to be a mere
adornment of the pot, an interplay
of sun and fingers blocking their way
and forcing them to be forever here.
The pot is now on my window-pane
and all it holds is a dead twig of lime
which dries and shrinks, but at a later time
begins to stir and brings its buds again:
a spirit can be forced to take a form,
but it will find a way to go home.
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