Lattices and flowers climb my hands like fire, flickering with movement. 
Heat distorts the lines, revealing earth brown, sunset orange, and blood red. 
If the dye burns, it is because no finger nor palm has done enough. 

In the land of olives and vines, bare hands cling to their mothers’ for warmth. 
Fists curl to capture the heat needed for a different kind of fire. 
They wish to ignite the spark in the heart where a soul no longer burns.