Single-Handed

It has no ears, it seems, my hand. This hand of mine! To the hand, it seems, it is a foreign tongue my calm logic, before it. As if all the words of decrees were only a shifting of air, weary and senseless, from this corner of the lips to that corner of the lips. My hand without deeds! It scratches the soil it scratches the clock it scratches, even, my stunned face, like the hand of a god in exile link by link, ceaselessly it breaks the chain of separations clawing at earth and time, it searches for your hand... as if a bewildered body in search of its own soul...