Handmade Resurrection

Handmade Resurrection


The Basement of Time


The rhythm of darkness

Here, beneath the city sidewalk, time is not measured by hands,

measured by the moisture that irrigates the stone walls;

the air is heavy, it smells of dust and old patience,

a darkness that does not threaten, that only embraces.


My fingers search for the cold mass on the wheel,

there is no electricity to move it easily,

only my left leg, in a continuous, monotonous movement,

a promise to matter that refuses to stay still.


Bills are white papers stacked at the door,

words full of numbers and threats for tomorrow,

but I have the clay, its non-negotiable truth,

who is not interested in interest, only in the shape I will give him.


It is a humble rite, a body that submits to the rhythm,

while the lights of the square above me blind passersby,

I immerse myself in my own light, the light of creation,

waiting for the moment when the mud will finally turn to stone.


Cracks in the skin

The cold enters the joints like an unwelcome guest,

My hands have lost the softness of the past,

each crack is a small canal where the clay flows,

a reminder that the body wears out to preserve the spirit.


There is no warmth here but the friction of labor,

My nails are always full of earth dust,

an ancient substance that refuses to be washed away by cold water,

while the light diminishes with each passing day.


The mirror in the corner no longer recognizes me,

I am a woman who kneads her own survival,

every wrinkle on my face is a wheel print,

a story written without paper and ink.


I look at my fingers and see the resistance,

the refusal to abandon the slow pace of creation,

even if the price is the blood that dries,

upon the rough body of the objects that are born.


Iconography of unemployment

The phone on the shelf looks like a dead object,

I don't wait for calls for orders or good news,

only the notifications about the debts that are growing,

like shadows that spread across the room every dusk.


On my shelves are piled the works that no one bought,

vases waiting for an owner who will not come,

are the witnesses of my own uncompromising choice,

who stand there, mute, in the silence of the basement.


The market has its own laws and speeds,

I have the clay that requires its own time,

I can't rush baking or drying things,

because then their truth would break in my hands.


And yet, hunger is a noise that never stops,

a melody that accompanies every turn of my wheel,

I wonder if art is really an act of freedom,

or just a way to delay the final fall.