Those hands,
through heartless, soundless snows,
though, sleeve-deep in sleepy echoes,
those hands could touch the intangible.
Time, those sands
wither like winter leaves,
in wrinkled lines
they are weaved,
fractures that cut deep when received.
Those hands toiled,
to manage the unmanageable,
day by day,
when years away were unimaginable.
Closely-coiled,
they hold only wrinkles,
measuring Life's spoils
by each uncherished dream.














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