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Friday, 25 November 2011

Hands

Hands


     
This poem is about our hands
The most constructive
And distructive parts of
The human body
Mankind  will (if he is lucky)
Inherit the universe
And his hands will play a major
Part in this exploration
But they will also destroy him
As sure as night follows day
Unless he learns to live
In harmony with his fellow man.


Look my hands
So clean, so bright
Not a scar or stain in sight
Hands so young
No work you've done
But wait my fingers
Your days will come


See them soon
When you start to work
Pulling handles
In a factories dirt
Or manual work
On a building site
Splitting your hands
Till blood red bright


Hands so cold
Chapped and sore
Heaving coal
For a fire-side roar
For in the "Pits"
You might be
Working deep in misery
Pick and shovel
On your back
Hands and body
Midnight black


Two strong hands
Might kill and plunder
If your country calls
For military thunder
Gun in hand
You pull the trigger
To kill and maim
A human figure


See them later
In years to come
Puffed up veins
Through all the strain
Blackend nails, full of grit
Hands and fingers
Bruised and split


But see them now
Your work days done
Twisted joints
Wrinkled skin
Sinues withered
Bent with age
Now you've reached
Your "twilight-stage"


Served me well
My hands once strong
Earn't my living
In work days long
But look my hands
At what you've done
Through out the life span
Of us human one

You built this World
For some it's heaven
Then you press a button
For Armageddon
This world you made
Will blow to bits
You see, some hands
Do EVIL tricks


 Peter "Handy" Wicks 1998

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