By Nandini Garg:
Some hands become treaties
That seal the fate of two nations,
Or the course of a river.
Some become weapons
Against the creativity of a questioning child.
Some become fly swatters
During a summer political gathering.
The same become applause
At the end of a speech
And also a beggar’s shame at
A traffic signal.
Hands, become starved desert
And hands become gobblers
That feed a parched soul.
A few become inkwells
That hold a pen all their lives.
Dancers to the music of words,
Lollipops, thermometers,
Gravels, sound amplifiers,
Tools for teenage pleasure
Amazement in a poetry night,
Respect in the battlefield,
Prayer in a temple,
Followed by an offering
And a blessing.
But, what is it,
Pasted on all these hands?
Is it the weight of destiny, or
Merely the depth of poetry
Of the Gods?