The
Hands that always remain soft
The
Night in its full glory, so dark just as her life
A
peep into her ‘Home’ - The vessels waiting for her and somebody
waiting for the fresh dinner
By
day transforming herself and rushing to work after the fulfilled
commands
By
night preparing the sumptuous dinner and then letting his naked body
on top of hers
Time
for a break? No way...
Early
morning she must fearfully remove of what stinks, of what remains
Can
he make something very elementary, like tea for example?
A
mirror in front of him he must hold and slowly observe himself,
He
is rotten, he is black, he is full of guilt... and his hands?
They
are but of course soft and will remain so.
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