Sign of the times
Free verse
My hands,
look at them!
They have flushed knucles,
playing like rasps
If I rub them,
as in a long winter
without gloves,
you always forgot to buy.
Look at my hands, they are the sign of the times.
You wash them often -they say-
this is the only shape of contact you can allow yourself now.
The hands aiming at embracing and touching and feeling
they are consuming under those
petrifying spells supporting us against the invisible enemy.
The body is a tingle
as anxiety you can drain with muscles voltage,
like a bulwark against the torpor of giving up.
The body waits for the moon to occupy the place of the sun,
hoping you end up a new day,
healthy,
free:
you did it.
You prayed, you keep doing it
you hope for you and the others
for the world
they really can appreciate
what really counts.
They are the sign of this time,
my hands like yours.
