Life is always a mix of water and fire,
Of bitterness and sweetness grinded in the mill,
While hard work corrodes all good memories.
I don't mind to forget, though, but only what
Had occurred to me long before I was born.
If you want to listen to a new old story,
Here's what I've been told at school named Life.
Some gurus say, 'Forgetting leads to happiness';
The others say, 'Don't lose control'. It's no gods
Who bake the pots, hence I'm one of them.
Due to the pottery I've got nine openings in my heart,
Becoming like a Prometheus in my daily life,
Making my practice sacrificially joyful and bright --
All the pinpricks and vexations I fire in furnace,
But all the pleasant stuff I possess to myself
By touching the revolving clay with both my hands.
You ask if it is hard to produce a form
From the formless clod of mud? --Yes, of course,
But Nothing came to this world first
To be a portent of emerging of anything else; --
And this is my inherent guideline.
While the potter's wheel is revolving fast,
You cannot see clearly the final shape on its surface.
Just close your eyes and feel the outcome
With your bitting heart. Talk to it quietly
With all your fingers in slide. . . At the end of the day,
You will find your proper shape, taking your due place
In this trade of gods to never stop following your calling.