A cantaro, the hands made me
From clay into ceramic jar,
Percussion instrument to be
Played by hands for sweet sounds that are.
Hands took me on board a big ship,
And touched me for my music joy.
A fierce sea storm ended the trip.
Destructive death did say, 'Ahoy.'
But I sank safely to my fate.
But with no hands, I could not play.
Beneath the waters, I did wait
Till hands held me another day.
Centuries later, I am found.
Hands again make my music sound.
Comments about this poem (Cantaro by Ima Ryma )
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