- Stand in asteptare,ca trandafirii si dovlecii,pere frumoase,tamaioase,adunu-n miezul lor,statornicia Anotimpurilor.In Vale,Roata Olarului se-nvarte-ncet.Din pietricelele de la Izvor,macina usor seminte transparente,bune pentru plamadeala.Apoi pune cate-un strop de apa,inmiresmata de aerul proaspat al diminetii.Apa pe piatra si piatra pe apa,asa se face Urciorul.Chiar si muntii cei carunti cu Cerbul,s-au invrednicit de Roata Olarului.Sa se statorniceasca langa matca Izvorului,oricat de instrainati ar fi.Sa asculte Vanturile,sa primeneasca picaturile de roua care se aseaza tacute pe tulpina ferigilor,care ascund,ca o taina, necunoscutele comori ale Padurii..Seceratorii fluiera in munti,de la un capat la altul al Pamantului,in diminetile in care nici macar zborul sagetat al vrabiilor nu se face auzit.Doar saltul lacustelor printre firele de iarba mai amintesc de trecerea lor.Asez Urciorul langa buturuga.Facut de mana Olarului ca sa adaposteasca Harta cu drumurile si placuta argintata cu Legile,va fi ascuns de piatra stancilor,in tropotul cadentat al Cerbului,pana la chemarea Izvorului.Ca o para tamaioasa ascunsa tainic de cupola catedralei in sunetul transparent al clopotelor,asa s-a desavarsit si Urciorul Olarului.Gustul acesta este atat de placut ca nectarul florilor de pe camp,amintind parca trecerea clipelor,atunci cand Timpul isi aseaza haina alaturi de rugul cu trandafiri,ca sa se odihneasca.
- Stand waiting as roses and pumpinks,pears beautiful muscadine,gathered in their core steadfastness Seasons.In Valley.the potter's wheel-spinning slowly.From gravel to the spring,transparent dust grains easily grind good dough.Then put each one drop of water,fresh fragrant air of the morning.Water on stone and stone water,pitcher is so.Even those gray mountains with deer,were worthy of the potter's wheel.To settle near Spring stock no matter how estranged they are.To listen to the winds,to renew the dew drops that sits silent on stem ferns,that will hide as a mystery the unknown treasures of the forest..Reapers whistle in the mountains from one end to another of the Earth,in the mornings even sparrows flight is not heard.Just jump through the blades of grass locusts now remember their passing.Pitcher sit near stump.Potter's hand made to shelter the road map and silver plate laws,will be hidden by stone rocks in rhythm clatter of deer,up to call Spring.As a muscadine pear,hidden in mysterious dome of the cathedral bells sound transparent,so it was perfect,Potter Pitcher.That taste is so nice as the nectar of flowers of the field,reminding passing moments like when Time sits with rose bush to rest.
