Stained Hands

I wish I didn't
have to wash
the stains
off my hands,
that speak
a thousand stories -
the mysteries,
the struggles,
the joy,
the pain,
of creating
with mud,
with paint,
with ink,
with mudras -
a language of love,
a song of the heart,
an oddyssey of the mind
with no end or start;
I wish they'd stay
in the stains,
in the lines
on my hands -
to speak to your soul
without any words.