I fashion a form from clay, I do,
a form from clay I carefully mold.
The purest water I gently bestow,
a shroud of linen, a story untold.
Weep not, O clay-form, for your father,
a stranger, a soul set adrift on the road.
I fashion a form from clay, I do.
The clay-form speaks not, nor walks, nor sighs.
Weep not, O clay-form, for your father,
the unfortunate one beneath weeping skies.
The clay-form speaks not,
speaks not, speaks not.
He speaks not.
He speaks not. He speaks not.
The clay-form speaks not.
He walks not, nor sighs,
Weep not, O clay-form, for your father,
the unfortunate one, whose spirit now flies.
My saffron hair, my saffron love,
the monsoon’s promise, a multitude of lies.
Counting the days, my cheeks are worn,
like sand worn smooth beneath the skies.
The crow has feasted, devoured my flesh,
the crow has feasted, all flesh now dies.
But spare my eyes, do not touch them, crow,
for in them lingers the hope of my love,
the hope of my love, my lover’s rise.
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