Hidden like a treasure inside my chest.
Buried under the palms of my hands.
Well kept, well protected.
Like a secret.
Sustains the unsaid.
Interpreter of the acceptable.

These hands have caught the salty tears
of sweet miseries.
They've known the touch of beauty
in its highest form of perfection.

These hands can melt together in a beautiful interlock
and become one.
Part of a beautiful history they are.
They've folded themselves into prayers of despair.
An extension piece of the inexplicable tongue they are.
So don't tell me that hands can't speak.
They have a code. A voice. They are a language.

These hands will be ready to comfort, to hold and to love.

A poetic instrument they are.
Without them poetry would non-exist. Non-written.
Where would i be?
Lost, like souls without peace.