When hands, they all move violently

stretching in, pointing out
closing up and, shutting down
all tenderity

his fingers cast in iron, I
bring forth

the story of a whole century can be heard
by the stretch of his fingers
In the tips of his notes

a segregation made lethal
in its capacity to foresee
the distinction between the message and
the tone of voice in which it breathes

such hands, when they
run up and down such bodies,
extraordinarily beautiful
music takes birth, and
such hands, when they
move into doors
making of them, curtains
life sings and,

all else is violence.

…

Ashima Prashar is an Indian poet.