276. Bloody Hands

Red as sun-lit roses in the budding-Spring,

The pavement glistens with fresh blood,

And in my heart a piercing thorn bears the moments’ sting.

In my hand is an old-withered rag of white,

And in my soul a battlefield,

Plays a ghostly reenactment of the costly fight.

–Bloody is the rag which tries to hide a guilty soul,

Yet bloodier are the hands which clean without a rag that’s whole.

Red are these hands and the only I have known,….

Are these hands with fresh-blood dripping…

Dripping, and dripping guilt and pain; scrubbing all alone.

Blue as restless oceans crashing to the shore,

Are the tears which crash to the earth,

Never enough to clean the hands of an old child-whore.

–Red as sunlit roses in the budding-Spring,

The pavement glistens with fresh blood,

And in my heart a piercing thorn bears the moments’ sting.

K. Aldaya, 8/19/14