The Hand.

The hand! What is the hand?

A tool to pluck the eye when sorrow is past thought?

Or a gentle musician that caresses a lonely tune?

And dances for the heart,

As doorway to the soul,

And, yes, too, some would have it break a branch,

And build by it's destruction.

This hand, this sword this gentle piece of work,

Crafted beyond mastering,

Yet able to turn and touch and serve.

No more willing slave! No more co-operative friend,

The one true thing of beauty.

You scar it and it heals,

Force it to great extremes and it will break before it yields,

In reverence of it's master; in willingness to serve.

Twins encompass the air and circle to and fro,

In the majesty of touch.