Whatever force move the hands that give warmth when we are cold, that comfort us when we are sad, that welcome with that kind of desperate want...hands that we love and that are so distant...

When felt the solitude cold
I longed for your hands,
the soft traveling fingers
following my face every line,
like trying to discover another
hiding secret of a man
that didn’t stop running
in search of the called love.

Can’t never be them waving to
a final departure those hands,
but to a warm welcoming for
the arrival of the only one
that could even from a distance
the owner of the hands wake up
to give a most tender caress
guarded inside a loving heart.

Your hands, delicate porcelain
made in a moment when God
had finished doing my face
and He thought it wasn’t right,
something was amiss in the mud,
some warm He thought perhaps,
so, to complete His work on me
He created your lovely hands.