Loving Hands

Loving Hands

The frail weak hands

Are lying placidly

On the table

The wrinkled skin

On her knuckles

Are lined with creases

That tell stories

In her life

Each line

Has seen pain

Each crease

Has felt the tears



The scares and calluses

On his 0ld rough hands

Immovable as a rock

Tell the stories

Of life’s major battles

The fears and doubts

That has shaped him



The weak frail hand

So light

So dainty

Gently curls its fingers

Around the old

Scarred callous hand

Of him who longs

For the soft

And gentle touch





R.Y Chughtai