Hands

Published: September 20, 2022

My hands miraculously sing

Memories of old touches they bring

Like flowers blooming meadows in spring,

Like rains extinguishing thirst of lands arid.

Of holding a face,

Of caressing an arm,

Of being squeezed to pleasurable death, a lover’s charm.

Of softness of the lips, heaven from a stranger’s kiss

Of a waking baby’s folded fists

Of snatching away a favourite treat

Of rubbing the stains from the best possible meal

Of being left alone on silent streets, wiping tears away from my own cheeks

Of breathing pages of a new book cover

Of security, of surrender

Remnant touches on my hands wonder

Singing songs secretly louder than rising thunder.