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Clay
It wasn’t just man that God created
from earthen dust and gave him life.
The clayman moulded the shape of man
from clay that he’d brought up.
The torso and head sculpted,
the face chiseled.
Its features. To the smallest detail.
For every span, a figure:
White, at times, then
red and
sometimes black.
From silicic clay,
at times calcareous
or ferruginous
with iron oxide,
God lathed man
on the palm of his hand.
From his tools he then removed the extra bits
discarding them.
As he breathed down the nostrils
he gave him life and
it wasn’t just man who opened his eyes
but also every piece of clay,
each piece changing colour, echoing the lands,
its skin freckled,
white or black or red.
Every chunk of clay
(our flesh)
becomes potatoes.
Translated from the Maltese by Claudia Gauci
Clay
It wasn’t just man that God created
from earthen dust and gave him life.
The clayman moulded the shape of man
from clay that he’d brought up.
The torso and head sculpted,
the face chiseled.
Its features. To the smallest detail.
For every span, a figure:
White, at times, then
red and
sometimes black.
From silicic clay,
at times calcareous
or ferruginous
with iron oxide,
God lathed man
on the palm of his hand.
From his tools he then removed the extra bits
discarding them.
As he breathed down the nostrils
he gave him life and
it wasn’t just man who opened his eyes
but also every piece of clay,
each piece changing colour, echoing the lands,
its skin freckled,
white or black or red.
Every chunk of clay
(our flesh)
becomes potatoes.
Translated from the Maltese by Claudia Gauci
Clay
It wasn’t just man that God created
from earthen dust and gave him life.
The clayman moulded the shape of man
from clay that he’d brought up.
The torso and head sculpted,
the face chiseled.
Its features. To the smallest detail.
For every span, a figure:
White, at times, then
red and
sometimes black.
From silicic clay,
at times calcareous
or ferruginous
with iron oxide,
God lathed man
on the palm of his hand.
From his tools he then removed the extra bits
discarding them.
As he breathed down the nostrils
he gave him life and
it wasn’t just man who opened his eyes
but also every piece of clay,
each piece changing colour, echoing the lands,
its skin freckled,
white or black or red.
Every chunk of clay
(our flesh)
becomes potatoes.
Translated from the Maltese by Claudia Gauci
Schrijf je in voor onze nieuwsbrief en blijft altijd op de hoogte van het laatste nieuws over de Bildtse Aardappelweken.
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