1
There are generations, and cities, and peoples,
Sad and old –
That left us no great masterworks,
But – a few pots!
2
In a museum a lady stands with a parasol
Before such a pot;
While in Sicily (even though Polish! . . .), she doesn’t know
Upon whom she treads! . . .
3
When peoples – you’ve no pity about their fate
In epoch’s chasms –
Vanish – like the butler who serves the plate
To the esteemed Madame.
Day 3, year 1869 (with a plate)