***  Hands. ***

Royal Club for Literature and Peace

***  Hands. ***

Barbara Di Sacco

***  Hands.  ***

 Ah, these hands

 they are at our tree

 like branches

 and fingers, leaves.

 They mime, they dance

 covering the face

 of fear or surprise.

 They caress warmly

 or escape

 to whom he greets.

 Hasty, shy, even cold

 talking about death.

 Their kind gestures

 express the heart

 even in bad ways

 capable of hard and moral slaps.

 They speak for us

 explaining, showing.

 They take your son

 to put him to the breast

 console an elder

 they dry tears.

 Maybe the first to move

 in every emotion.

 Our wings

 they imitate flight.

 They move brushes

 for an illusion

 they write

 Now

 holding a pen.

       🦋 Barbara Di Sacco

documentation: Waffaa Badarneh