In the shadows of twilight, She looked at her hand, Circling at the stem of her glass, Her fingers not tall and slender, Unlike the elegant ones staring From glossy sheets, Her palms small, Etched with curvy fate lines, Fingers partitioned in small Rectangles, Her nails short and square, Without a shimmery paint. She loved the mole Positioned at the back of her hand, And the way her hand looked When she held a pen, As she spilled poetry on paper, She loved inhaling The handful of fragrant petals cupped in her palms, Or the way her hands Curled in a prayer, Her tender touch Brightening the lives of people Around her, The brushing of tears From the cheeks of her loved ones, Placing a hand Over her heart In humble thankfulness And love,
Eager for warm handshakes, A firm hand over hers In reassurance, Always curious To know her destiny Engraved on her palms, Often tracing those lines dreamily, Speculating the meaning Of each line. Her hands combing through her Lock of waves On a wind-swept night, The very same hands that Once cradled her babies And rocked them to slumber. The color of love Seeping through her hands, Leaving hand-prints of memories At every stage of life, They are the hands of Warmth and kindness, The hands of ardent love. © Sakina S. Dossaji
