Ilya Ehrenburg
The Potter of Jaen

Where people have dined you find refuse and tin,
Pans, broken glass, a bed, lilac in a pot.
And high in the rafters above it all,
Rocks an empty cradle.
Iron and bricks, squares and disks,
A vague jumble of things,
And wherever you step,
All the odds and ends of others’ joy,
Others’ boredom, cry out from beneath your feet.
How we flattered ourselves once with all this rubbish!
Yet what did our hands ever make or cherish?
Our lives are like that, fleeced ragged by thieves,
Extraordinary and utterly wild.
A family portrait makes us think of resemblances,
And ponder a new cover for the sofa.
The coarse monstrosity of the whole envelope
Clings to us like a fly, like a dope.
But just round the corner life’s bustle goes on,
The pavement is cleared now of rubbish.
And in the depths of a cool shed
There is a potter, toiling over his clay.
I have lived a long time, but I have learned nothing,
For now I gaze amazed and alone,
As in obedience to that old man’s hands,
Out of the darkness, a pitcher is born.

Translated by Cathy Porter