Your hands are as white as alabaster, Covered with rings and bracelets, To hide the scars of past torments.
You say the ring on the little finger Of your right hand is of solid ruby. A gift passed down through generations, To symbolise maturity. From Mother to Daughter. It reminds you of home.
Home has its own kind of comfort. Oven baked cookies cooked by Grandma, And the cold sea breeze is what you clasped onto. It reminds you of the time you felt most protected. You were untouchable.
Your hands are a beacon of history.
The silver bangle on your left hand Was a gift from your departed best friend. He taught you to dance, He taught you to flourish, And he taught you to believe in yourself, And face those who pulled you down.
Your hands are a beacon of history, your history.
The wounds you bear upon them are unscathable, Yet the rings and bracelets used as a cover Remind you of who you are. They are yours forever.
Image credit: Sylvie Tittel