Answer:
Late afternoons I often bathe. I'll soak in water piping hot. My essence goes through. My see through clothes. Used up am I - I've gone to pot.
Halo of water, tongue of wood. Skin of stone, long I've stood. My fingers short reach to the sky. Inside my heart men live and die.
What can be filled with empty hands?
Glittering points that downward thrust. Sparkling spears that never rust.
I have a face, yet no senses. But I don't really care, because time is of the essence.
Almost everyone needs it, asks for it, gives it. But almost nobody takes it.