All I have are my hands

With them I pray,
With them I tend,
They’ve been known to fight,
And I know they can mend.
But they won’t ever play soldier,
Hold a gun and pretend.

My hands smell of soil and oud,
Grease and coffee blends.
They’re thick with worries,
scarred with stories,
But have a poem between fingers,
I’m happy to lend.

-Wesam El dahabi