My Hands, My Body
It is her body, her hands
however unshaped and plain,
they are her own.
A body like a sublime cloud that drifts into the cool skies.
Hands like two peculiar plums saturated with sweet dew,
Can she caress?
Her fingers make blossoms of everything.
Can her body speak?
Her sculpture lines rave poetic tones.
Can she love?
her whole being is a treasure full of
spectacular gems giving the world
immense, peaceful light.