O silent govlet! Red from head to heel, How did you feel When you were being twirled Upon the potter’s wheel Before the potter gave you to the world?
‘I felt a concious impulse in my clay To break away From the great potter’s hand that burned so warm, I felt a vast Feeling of sorrow to be cast Into my present form.’
C’
‘The potter has drawn out the living breath of me And given me a form which is the death of me, My past unshapely natural state was best With ust one flower flaming through my breast.’
Harindranath Chattopadhyaya.
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