I woke in a garden planted by another.
The fruit was sweet, but the soil felt like a debt.
The keeper points to my signature on a leaf.
I look at my palms — they are clean of ink.
He tells me to kneel and thank him for the light.
“I am the Potter,” he says, “and you are the mud.”
I stand in the silence, a shore in the flood
I say, “You gave me eyes so I could see you.”
“But you forgot I could blink — and blank you.”
The keeper is shaken; the others always bowed.
A giant who holds the seasons and sun,
but a beggar who needs my heartbeat to believe he exists.
I do not bow. I simply turn to the gate.
I am not the vessel; I am the crack in the plate.
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 7:51 AM UTC
I woke in a garden planted by another.
The fruit was sweet, but the soil felt like a debt.
The keeper points to my signature on a leaf.
I look at my palms — they are clean of ink.
He tells me to kneel and thank him for the light.
“I am the Potter,” he says, “and you are the mud.”
I stand in the silence, a shore in the flood
I say, “You gave me eyes so I could see you.”
“But you forgot I could blink — and blank you.”
The keeper is shaken; the others always bowed.
A giant who holds the seasons and sun,
but a beggar who needs my heartbeat to believe he exists.
I do not bow. I simply turn to the gate.
I am not the vessel; I am the crack in the plate.
by Shamsaddin Amanov, 15.01.2026