Cleaning Hands
There was noise and movement.
It felt like a ritual.
It was going well, until suddenly the mood changed.
It felt like a funeral now.
Voices kept echoing — who died? who died?
Tears began to rain.
It was quite unexpected.
There was no body, no person, no object, no story — only this.
Hands moved on the body.
Each touch felt different —
same hand,
different angle,
different shape,
different feeling.
Yıkadı kendini.
Sevgisiyle.
Başından aşağı,
Ayağının altına kadar.
Silkeledi.
Tüm pisliği üzerinden.
Bir el diğerini temizledi.
Birlikte vücutlarını.
Before the wind,
The voice was heard.
It was coming from far,
The depth of the dark,
Roared.
They were prepared.
He was trained and cleaned.
She was the first —
welcoming the wind with open hands,
Shaping it,
Building roads for it.
She cleaned herself.
He cleaned himself.
They cleaned each other.
They cleaned all others.
They showered with pain.
They dried the pain off —
from their toes,
from their fingertips.
Palm to palm,
she warmed them.
It was their love.
It was their hands.
It was their body.
They soothed themselves.
They loved themselves.
Love was their towel.
Love was their hands.
They were pure.
They were love.
They were still.
They were silent.