I only felt proud of my fingers
when they counted money, properties, missiles
and pointed to the century?s innocent, not the crooks.
I signed to let war start, with peace written off,
when they pulled, pushed, nodded or winded,
when they squeezed, twisted, straggled,
when they robbed and hid the evidences
and pressed the button to cause destructions.

Then you came and softly took my fingers,
you taught them to touch yours in a magic way,
to touch down smoothly on the geography of love,
to travel joyfully from your heel to your top,
to vibrate in tune with the swinging of your waist,
to stretch out spaciously on your breast
and on the coast of your lips, that await a kiss.

Yet, my fingers are naive to see the invisible beauty;
they are still blind to touch the dew of the flame
in your eyes, to see and touch upon your inner smile.
Blind to stare at your inner star and caress it...

blind to see, point and count such a gorgeous thing.