• A hand without a glove will die in the cold
    Why must I write a poem
    Alone forever, even when it's old
    Why must I use Sheibi as a messenger

    The hand was once very warm
    Do I not know what I should say
    That was lost when the glove was torn
    Do I not feel this way

    The glove was fixed in good time
    Am I that scared
    But the hand had drawn a line
    Am I that weird

    The glove found a new bearer
    What are these self laws I follow
    But the hand thought it was unfair
    What are these restrictions I place

    The hand knew it had lost
    Can I not say what I feel
    And now is paying the highest cost
    Can I not ever be happy