Restless little fingers are the sea.
Crashing fingertips. Little
skin bells. Hard slaps of salt.
The wind is clapping in the leaves
and in the branches:
the caress of his palm like touchable rivers.
A hand opens for diamonds,
a hand closes when squeezing an orange:
day and night:
a cycle of fist and palm.
The sounds change hands, and their fingers
play eardrum drums.
The birds are hand-winds.
The trees are sky-fingers.
The sky is a roof full of shiny nails.
The nails belong to the universe.
The universe is a black hand
waving a flag
searching, in the depth of infinity,
for nothing at all.
is a naked hand of water.
is a hand with a wool glove.
The city is a latex glove:
water wool latex, 40 º of skin, 40 º of blood,
A hand ends at the feet
and begins at the hands;
and it opens,
it moves with the movement of its fingers:
this is how are body is:
its name threatens any hand:
Childhood is a reflection of a hand. Adolescence
is a spongy hand. Maturity is a hand.
Aging a clumsy hand. And death,
no longer holds things.
Sex is an embrace of hands:
your body is the extension of my hands
your hands are an extension of my body.
Pain is a tight fist of white finger tips.
Love is a closed fist of red finger tips.
The world is clothing for a pair of hands.
To hold the memory,
to grasp hold of the landscape,
scrub your lips,
to beat hearts and brake one’s own knuckles,
to recognize the fire
and the burns in the skin,
to see the claw of the years.
To count the steps of the fingers
and to fall
in a plague of dislocations.
To squeeze the spasm of a tear.
To eat a bunch of bitter finger nails.
To see the grip of the years.
To dry out the cartilage with precision,
to oxidize it
while palpating life
in the midst of bruises and toughness.
To be in God’s hand
without being able to count His fingers.
The world is clothing for a pair of hands
with a body overcome by stumps.
* In the original the poet plays with the word ‘humano’ (human), which contains the word hand: ‘mano’.