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The Hands of Love

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
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

The Hands of Love
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