the hands pierce through the word’s masonry
talking without caring for reason that always weighs
they sniff the matter with the independence’s immodesty
uncover and polish the hearts’ amber betray their flames
close your eyes and do push through for fingers
the caress staying aloft falls down alike
an odd butterfly on a realm without flowers
the hands are likewise the light sifting rains of tears
they are swords dressed in green foliage of spring times
from foreheads or aeruginous of autumns from shoulders
they open the memory's nightstands whilst praying
they open themselves likewise silence’s buds for forgiving
for embracing always before thinking
they get shiver whilst playing they are scorching or icy
pulpy or dry ivy with roots deeply root-bounded within souls
the windows of some empty compartments
or the tamped passages searching for doors
together raise and draw near the divine breath
before the pronunciation or even instead it
the hands betray the destiny and help the ecstasy
to survive to the instant writing down the flashes
of lightning from the heart’s sky and the rivers
that gnawed and swallowed the banks of the body