The Potter

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Your whole body holds
a goblet or gentle sweetness destined for me.
When I let my hand climb,
in each place I find a dove
that was looking for me, as if
my love, they had made you out of clay
for my very own potter’s hands.
Your knees, your breasts, your waist
are missing in me, like in the hollow
of a thirsting earth
where they are relinquished
a form,
and together
we are complete like one single river,
like one single grain of sand.
– Pablo Neruda

Photo: Anastasia Cojocaru

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