HOMAGE TO OUR HANDS
A palm and five articulated fingers
Not just a very technically elaborate tool.
Our hands know how to express
The ideas of our mind,
The emotions of our heart,
The aspirations of our soul.
They are our precious and extraordinary allies
In working, talking, reasoning,
Counting, achieving, praying… and more.
They are an essential unmatched backing.
Our hands are a LANGUAGE:
From the OK of the thumb up
To the victory in forefinger and middle finger V,
From the ‘give me five’ as all right,
To the revolutionist’s fist,
From the applause to the ‘hello’.
And today with the symbolic ‘three fingers’
Of the young people in favor of democracy.
Hands and fingers talk.
Our hands express EMOTIONS:
They rejoice and suffer,
They rise to the sky when we are happy,
They participate, playing with colors,
In the joyful Holi Festival,
They hide the tears we want to keep secret,
They mean togetherness and understanding
When two are intertwined.
Tenderly caressing the baby and sensually the lover.
The beggar reaches them out in his despair hungry.
Yes, our hands are full of feelings.
Our hands WORK for sustaining us:
Then they are the calloused and robust hands
Of the bricklayer or of the woodcutter.
Delicate and precise,
Those of the tailor and of the surgeon;
And what about those of the barber holding the razor..
The hands of the housewife fear nothing:
The heat, the cold, the soft, the rough,
The dirt and the clean;
Carrying, washing, cooking, sewing, ironing …
They are ready to do everything.
Our hands feed us.
Our hands make ART:
They are the fingers of the pianist, of the violinist
That run on the keys or on the strings;
They are the pen of the writer
Who tells us his stories;
The painter brushes coloring the canvas,
The sculptor chisel.
And aren’t they selves art
When they decorate the nails with varnish
And embellished with rings and bracelets?
Our hands create.
Our hands are SPORTS CHAMPION:
They hold the tennis player’s racket
And the archer’s bow,
They move gracefully in the dance
Swaying with the music.
They lift and crush the ball
Above the volleyball net.
Our hands mark the points.
Our hands PRAY: OM MANI PADME HUM
In the folded hands of Namaste.
They meditate in Buddha hand gestures:
Contemplation, teaching, compassion, energy.
They support the thinker’s head
And the inspired poet’s forehead.
Our hands thank and implore.
And we must not forget that they can still get bad,
When they steal, they kill, they beat,
They hurt, they cheat……..
But not their fault, our fault!
That we have not used them in the right way.
Our hands are worthy of great love and respect;
And as we age, they are getting old with us
Sometimes fatigued and deformed.
They will remind us of our whole life.
NAMASTE, homaging our hands.
(Note: It is a little different poem maybe. I thought about days ago when I met a friend of mine or exactly an acquaintance now. I met her rarely. She lost a hand at a very young age in a car accident.
She always wore prostheses that showed nothing. When I met her she had just had a new one with which she can move his fingers ‘thinking’…..After she had explained everything and shown it too. Returning home I thought how much the hands are important. I had written something and now this is a poem.)
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