HANDS
Thick and filthy your hands work the land. Caressing, enchanting
the fertile brown ground. A tropical flower emerges to fly and be on the care
of your hard working hands. The sky wide Samán grew up from your hands, no
longer a seed but a chant. The gold on my finger was carved by your hands, by
your dancing fingers, love poems, love lines. I live with the dream of the hold
of your hand, scarred fearless hands, now food for the grass.
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