Our hands shelter the sky.
When misty clouds spread tears of joy
as blood spurs emotions high.
With veins walking away from dust
and strings melted in sunny days ahead.
You know that inhabited places are useless
as embedded as you are in shaded skies.
We have our own eyes,
the eyes that count.
Others are hollowed,
thinner that air
darker than a soaking decay
straddled by countless bones that shake
through soulless earthquakes.
Let others be aware
of their tininess sculptures.
To our hands immeasurable glasses of wine
in celebration of kingdoms within.
The light does not vanish inside the greatness of our
hands.
Thus, let us throw hands up in the sky.
They shall shelter the sky from daunting vultures.
At the end
we will stay sacred entities
fearless bodies vaccinated against rage.
We will be greatness within
here and ever
as the sky bends towards these protecting hands:
ours, from now to there.
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