Come to my land
go with a band
fold the hands
take an elegant stand
look not bland
show up grand
create your brand
that be your life in all
as you slowly diffuse into sand.
I see my hands
they look grand
lovely and fine
expressing a sign
The hands write
they do also fight
extending them out
would help many without doubt.
The hands work incessantly
lifting and holding reliably
giving a hand is helping
giving a big hand is clapping .
That goes with the hand in good sense
there being notoriety hence
that of accepting bribe
being no mean jibe
The hand that rocks
does things in a shock
that of corruption in the go
tending to be fluent in the flow.
The hands that fold and pray
incline toward a slay
taking the sword in anger
or causing an ignominious trigger .
In my hands my little son found solace
rocking and singing he became calm
that be the beginning of my hands association .
Holding my hands my son got across
with a feeling secure he went about
that be the preliminary take of my hands.
Holding his hands I taught him to write
write did he with figures small and big
that was the secondary level of the hands of mine.
The hands that moulded him to the perfection
the way he grew up under its protection
that be the third degree connection of my hands.
The time has come for him to move
taking the hands of mine he goes forward
a final position of my hands with him.
Seeing my hands now I find
they be worn out with wrinkles around
shaky they are fit to end up the strive.
Well, they were the same hands long back
robust and strong full of life
soft and tender as a petal.
The hands have told you a story
that of being the tale of every mother
The morning looks dull
with people not seen about
nothing happens in full
as there is none going out.
What be the cause I wonder
I could infer nothing so far
as I think about in a ponder
I trace nothing great ajar.
It might be a holiday, I conclude
holidays are spent not at home I know
as people go over with a schedule
visiting places with glee in a row.
What else would it be? I think aloud
while my son sits facing me with a tease
What is your botheration now? he talks loud
Keep going not thinking of things in pieces.
Telling him of my deliberation straight
he unable to control his laughter
holds my hand and says with words right
you have other things to care about now and after.
Still my mind persists on its thought
wanting to know why the day is lifeless
my son reaches me with a plot
Prodding over the uses of hand
I was taken aback in a stand
myriads be the uses like a wand
with eating starts the work
follows the writing in task
adding to the embracing
when in extreme love
when in unbeatable anger
with an indicative pointer
going on to pinpoint aberration
goes the much used hand
for whatever deployment
be it cleaning or mopping
be it to applaud or deplore
so many be the potential play
that the hand does in all
that without them
man would have to go
helpless and defective.
handicapped and challenged
doing nothing innovative
for that matter anything proper.
Round and round goes the clock.
It is a rotation of its little hands.
Round and round goes the earth.
It is a revolution on its own axis.
Round and round goes the Man.
It is a movement to circulate physically.
Round and round he craves in.
It is a motion to spread slander.
The clock shows time in precision.
Enacting day and night in decision.
The earth extends to life a bounty
Enlivening men and animals to a dainty.
Man breeds enmity in a concealed security.
He nurtures vengeance in a confided intimacy.
Killing one another is his discreet strategy.
Annihilating the existence in totality.