Cold grey night of uncertainty
I wash the fear from faces of stone.

If you really touched me, I’d know fearlessness,
but it’s no use.

Your touch is that of a mother’s
Your hands are busy cleansing, washing over me.
Me the lover, not the fighter
Me the jester, not the prophet
Me the sick, not the well.

and you.

I fear a touch, the touch of a lover
or fighter,
I fear the prophecies
of a jester.

of you.

and I wash the fear
from this face of stone.