Pottery

Before being born
I am a seed
After the cry
I am a flower

Tears of giants
a sea of new creatures
ask the poetry
not the poet
there is no pottery
capable of purity
nor eternity

I see the colours fly
the migration of the butterflies
I felt the wind change
powered the windmills
a thousand wild dreams
blowing in the flower fields

Photo by Pascal Debrunner on Unsplash