Each one, reach one

Count of your fingers one by one,
Kindly touch the right sin
Point hell.

Of your foot prints, know how to run,
Run to be washed, be clean
then tell
Of each one, preach the songs of old,
tell Children those old tales
be nice.

Fire has a way of being cold,
burning words in our mails
with spice.

Ruddapoet [TRCP]