The hand touches many things
My mind springs with thought as the day begins.
The eye spins and sees far away, as I survey the end of this beautiful may.
I understand the kings and queens; the wars, and why the soldiers scream in the fray.
I stand under the shade of an ancient rotten tree.
A brief respite from the scorching sand.
Winter for spring, spring for summer, a marching band.
Symphony of seasons with an imminent end.
I understand a lasting rest in this land is a mirage, a pit, a roundabout to join the damned.
The hand touches many things
Some had failed to surpass these hills.
The feet begin, and free me from my bitter twin as I watch my muse play the violin.
I understand the sorrow, the joy, the harmony within; and her heart burning with sin.
I command my soul to expand beyond this thorny branch.
A feat of strength that is so grand.
Pain for freedom, freedom for bliss, a scarring plan.
Industry of sacrifices for a certain Khan.
I understand a story without adversity is always bland.
The hand touches many things
Sometimes heavy rings, shining amidst loud cheers.
The ear hears the siren as I float to my fateful summer tears.
I understand the heart of the art is painted with a plethora of colors.
I disband the apparitions of a thousand past wars.
The moment of truth to know if my eyes can really see
A light on the horizon beyond this rotten tree.
Can I hear the duet of the sky and the eternal sea?
Or am I compelled by the embrace of a familiar dream?
The hand touches many things
Tonight a thorny rose painted red.
On a crumpled paper my blood has been spread.
As the mind clutches the end of a curious thread,
I understand it can even touch souls with words silently read.
I slam a tombstone right next to the ashen tree
Of crimson colors, to remind me of the decree.
Kings, queens, and the lands echoing with their scream
Should not silence the duet I redeemed.
The hand touched many things
Heavenly, dreadful and in between.
A pen with red ink wounded the hand unclean.
The red petals on a starry night smell strangely serene.
I understand there are many a sunsets still yet to be seen.
I march and face the sun with a flowing pen in hand.
A river of grace to overcome the fiery sand.
Sensation for knowledge, knowledge for experience
A perilous journey, across three cursed regions.
I understand there is no such thing as impervious.
The hand touched many things
Now a mirror staring at a certain man.
Lest I step upon my promised land,
I hope it's the hand of a precious friend.
