These hands have grown weathered From exposure to the sun. They derive character From their features, rough and worn. Closer scrutiny shows A much deeper quality. For within those digits Resides soft agility. These hands do not implore There is no right to demand. There's earnest supplication When I touch you with my hands. These hands reach out to you To find love and life renewed. My touch seeks out your grace And therein become imbued.
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