
The worker handed us a clay pot too small to contain a man, even one transformed into ash. We carried the pot to the sea. When his brother poured it over the swirling water some fragments of charred bone washed quickly away. Now the man is contained not just in a body, a pot, ash, a bone or, for a while, in our fragments of memory, but at last, in a space vast enough for all his desires: the whole earth, the weeping clouds, the sky, the glittering firmament.
Very beautiful, both poem and photograph.
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