A Most Precious Vase of the Ming Dynasty

In fair morn’s tender bloom it was,

whilst noon yet tarried far away,

that I, unmindful in my haste,

did stumble through a bramble way

upon a painted vase most rare.

Enchanted was I by that hour, struck mute;

its manifold hues and cunning depth of form

did stir within my breast a yearning strong.

I would possess it evermore,

to hold it fast for all my days;

with fervent hand I touched its grace,

and it did beckon me with longing –

yet knew I not, nor could I know,

what gift the morn could ne’er bestow:

the knowledge of its inward soul,

the measure of its truest worth.

Thus, lacking wisdom, lightly I held it,

and heedlessly set it from my grasp;

till, in a moment darkly drawn,

as clouds did gather in the sky,

it vanished from mine eager sight.

As by some unseen, sovereign force,

beyond my strength or mortal will,

it stirred, it fled, and lost itself unto the night.

Then wept I sore – aye, many years –

with outstretched hands in sightless gloom,

still craving that fair-patterned grace

which once my very soul ensnared.

So came a morn, another morn,

wherein I walked as others do,

persuading mine own heart I must –

perchance such course is rightly so –

and did subdue my longing deep,

desiring not to know its truth.

For one must grow, and cease from youth,

and cast aside the child within,

and walk the world with steady step

unburdened by such painted dreams.

Yet on a night – another night –

when at the last I knew full well

no cure was mine, nor solace found,

with steps made heavy by the weight

of secret knowledge in my breast

of that dear vase, now lost to me –

a wonder came to pass most strange:

my longing had recalled it forth.

Yet mark thee well – this is not all,

nor hath the tale yet reached its end.

For on a day, another day, 

wandering through the Wood

of Endless Turmoil and Utter Woe

I stumbled once more ‘mid tangled thorns –

and lo! Before mine eyes it lay:

the selfsame vase as at the first.

Then bowed I low unto the heavens,

and still, I bow with each new dawn,

as silk I wrap it tenderly

lest fragile beauty come to harm;

as marks I set a hundredfold

to mind me where ’tis laid away,

lest once again it slip from me;

as secretly I touch its form,

concealed from every watchful eye,

that none may see, nor come to know.

Yet know I this, within my soul:

no joy is mine to show it forth,

nor bear it proud before the world,

though now I ken its priceless worth.

For life doth grant – and taketh still –

and every gift exacts its price.

Valentina Pavlović is a contemporary poet from Belgrade, Serbia. Her poetry explores inner rhythm, shifts in tonality, diverse perspectives, and themes. Her work is recognized for its original approach to form, tone and expression, creating poetry that is intimate, powerful and universally relevant while enabling layered communication with readers.