Strong are her hands,
Darkened by summer’s touch,
Now pale like ghosts in twilight’s hush.
Could these be her hands?
Did they dip in scented creams
By tranquil pleasure pools?
Did they bathe in moonlit beams
In serenity’s quiet rules?
Did they drink from wild skies,
Resting upon gentle knees?
Did they roll cigars
Or barter in diamonds with ease?
On the feet of holy Madonnas,
Did they wilt golden blooms?
Is it belladonna’s dark blood
That in their palms now looms?
These hands, hunting and bruising,
Swelling like dawn’s first light,
Seeking nectar, mixing poisons,
Bringing the day from the night.
What dream seized these hands,
Stretching in distant lands,
A dream of Asia’s mystic ways,
Of Khenghavars or Zion’s days?
These hands did not sell oranges,
Nor shine at the feet of gods;
They did not wash the diapers
Of blind, heavy children in squads.
They are not hands of cousins,
Nor workers with sweat-streaked brows,
Burned by the factory’s fire,
In the woods where stench endows.
These hands bend backs but do not harm,
Stronger than machines’ alarm,
Mightier than a horse’s might,
They stir like furnaces alight.
Their flesh sings the Marseillaises,
Never prayers in sanctuaries,
They tighten necks of wicked women,
Crush the hands of noble dames,
Hands stained with guilt and shame.
The glow of these loving hands
Turns the heads of meek sheep;
In their fingers’ tasty rings,
The sun sets a ruby deep.
A mark of the common folk
Darkens them like a mother’s breast,
The backs of these hands kissed
By every proud rebel’s quest.
In the great sun of loaded love,
They pale, yet marvelous they stand,
On the bronze of machine guns
Through insurgent Paris grand.
Ah! sometimes, O sacred hands,
In your fists where hearts tremble,
Lips unsobered by your command,
Chains clinking, clear symbols.
And it’s a strange shiver
In our beings when, sometimes,
We seek to unwind you, Angel Hands,
Even if it means making your fingers bleed.
:: 06.05.2024 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 