The faucet.
You sink your hand under it,
Awaiting its soothing sprinkle of the sea,
To wash away the dirt from your palms,
To purify yourself,
From the filth that lies in your hands.

After engaging in hundreds of sins,
And wrapping yourself in dirt,
And worldly evil,
You’re no longer polished and clean.
You quest after repentance,
From the Lord,
The well-wisher of His mercy.
You lower yourself,
To foresee,
The syrupy showers from the Lord,
The Almighty,
You ask for forgiveness.
You beg to be cleansed from all the grimy sins you’re plastered in,
And every time you descend yourself,
You’re always given that water from the Lord,
To become pristine.

But you never stop coming back to that faucet,
Because every time you’ve cleansed yourself,
With all the water,
And all the repentance,
You always scamper back,
Because you never seem to stop befouling your hands,
Or staying away from evil.