The Dozens of Hands

How beautiful she was ! When she is sparkling in the queue of displaced How sincere her sadness was ! As a poem by black and white I am waving and call her And scanning my hand ... After the queues break up In that cloudy afternoon We are sheltering in a small restaurant And sit side by side With Her purple light dress Her small body And her ruined spirit She was talking to me Long silence between sentence and another I respect it with equivalent silently She broken my silently every time with fabulous moan I felt like I was in church She was yellow and weak like an old book I said : Do you born in February 17, 1979 ? She said Do not try to pressure on the wound You will need the dozens of hands !