Whose hands are these that make the marble heated
With flammable desire for the dawn?
Whose shrivel incarnates the lifeless , beated
Blokade of rocks, chosen for no return?

Whose eyes can model an amorphic matter
Into a masterpiece by all adored?
And with the gentlest sight incrusts a letter
Into a voided sigh long sent abroad?

Whose soles pick up so graciously the overs
Left by a swinging heart, a throbber’s veil?
And whose heels elevate deserted lovers
From beds of ashes, in discoloured pale?

Whose voice enfreshens stale piano notes
Left rummaging on dirty floors or corners?
And who can build a tune from soundless bolts
Not disaligning thumps of silenced borders?

...