his hands are not coated
by the same coal instilled in his place of work
they arise out of ashes of an unseen fire
wielding its flame in unwelcomed areas

where truth and lies are rooted in the same sin
masking filth over pale skin too afraid of the sun
and telling shadows their worth can never be proven
in the ether of endless night

his rot, his grime which he wears like a badge
safely dissolving his shame
for he breathes in isolated air
which lingers in the pockets of smoke

hiding the last face she showed him
for its disturbance evoked a different life
than the one he'd like to lead
and kept his hands from the pillages of dirt

hands too terrified of wash
to see what's been hiding all this time
when their sense of duty finds its limit
when the work becomes fire
and the fire becomes forever
venturing into the forest of night
taking pity on the poor souls
too blind to see what they've done