Her hands

Her hands are rough, from the dusts she battles
She hides it with lotion, when she smooths his head
Her hands are weary, from the work that she does
And at night when the lights are dark she forgets all that
and loves him to the depths of her heart

Her hands carry marks, from the hot oil that stings
the very hands that soothes her infants fever away at midnight
The old table lamp bearing witness
Of the one who lulls her baby to sleep

Her hands they are shaky, from tired days of sending
Her boy and girls to school to learn how to live
Her hands tell a story, behind the wrinkles and lines
Of youth and dreams she put on hold for a life like this
But never once, has she complained but love more instead

Her hands are now old, as her grandaughter sympathizes
But with zest she proclaims "I am never tired!"
Her hands are now cold, as she returns to her Maker
I pray to You, in heaven she belongs, care and love her
For those hands, those hands are my mother's...

Ari Yahya
Friday, 26th September 2008