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.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Cantaro by Ima Ryma )
- Lesbians, Angela K Brown
- Blood Runs Deep, Angela K Brown
- Innocence, Angela K Brown
- That Old Tattered Robe, Jon Janson
- A Wilted Rose, Angela K Brown
- Hindi Haiku (61-65) हाइकू मंगल, S.D. TIWARI
- A Poet, Angela K Brown
- Let us dream, hasmukh amathalal
- Iron Gates, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Mental Illness, Angela K Brown
Poem of the Day
- 04 Tongues Made Of Glass, Shaun Shane
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost
- Morning, Paul Laurence Dunbar
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
- Heather Burns