Vigilia

Hands that smelled of bread and the dove-gray waiting before dawn,
Spread the blanket each night between fear and breaking light,
Gathered the tears of childhood defeats into soft palms,
Wove ribbons through braids, like flowers in an old icon.

Hands that carried hope in tightly packed, overflowing bags,
Tempered my spirit firmly through the first bitter partings,
Mended and washed the past, knowing no rest,
Taught me to bear the blow and the weight of every deed.

Hands stitched with the lacework of wise and gentle lines,
Grew light as a ray in the morning blue,
Quietly soothed the dread of startled thoughts,
Held the keys to doors forever unlocked for me.

Hands – a living parchment, thinner than ancient scrolls,
Saved the world whole through a thousand small battles.
Still they hold me above the abyss – my invisible wings,
Their silent labor – dearer than all prayers.

Hands I will keep forever within my own embrace,
More than life itself, I will cherish that tender touch and stillness.
They became a faithful refuge in every nighttime alarm –
Time now to warm them: my turn is at the threshold.