The hands you wash

People are see-through, Their minds are readable.

Love is scarce, and it puts scars on you.

Roads are long, and nights are tiresome,

You look at a three-colour moon.

Moody days and evenings

overwhelmed with bright stars

and digits on your hand symbolize numbers,

the numbers you talk

out of your refined sentences.

The water flows like an element of awareness,

you look at palms that grow old and dry,

you look at your land and it falls apart into letters,

like your sentences.

And you wash your hands

with the clearest water,

but you meet murderers

and fall into a cold rigid dream.