My hands
The death has spotted my hands
making me wear leather gloves
to hide my shameful deeds
as I wear the metal badge
marking me my space in hell.
I hold the orders in my hands
written in a secret code
but it is my voice that shouts
the commands to all those men
who just said their farewell.
Holding their empty faces in my hands
that are printed on white paper
making crosses for those who fell
to the grasp of unknown men,
either dead or in the cell.
Wearing white gloves on my hands,
standing still in the devil’s line
as we peer down at the bouquets of red roses
seeping through the caskets of white
where those brave hearts dwell.
Entrusting free will in our hands,
to join the flock of your lamb
yet we are forced to follow those
who lure us into the traps of sin
where your kingdom fell.
Why should I move my hands,
just because of your higher rank
to give you right to decide
who will leave this world or not
with the ringing of your bell.
Praying, I clasp my hands
seeing the fields of red and smoke,
with a quivering lips,
cursing you for giving will to those
who have no soul to sell.