The poem
Other vessels hold wine, other vessels hold oil inside the hollowed-out vault circumscribed by their clay. I, as smaller measure, and as the slimmest of all, humbly hollow myself so that just a few tears can fill me.
Wine becomes richer, oil becomes clear, in its vessel. What happens with tears?-They made me blind in my glass, made me heavy and made my curve iridescent, made me brittle, and left me empty at last.