The Bronze Hand

The bronze hand
rests
on my heart.
 
Who gave it life ?
 
The gem-like nails
are sensuous.
 
Is it some damsel's hand
or
some goddess'
blessing mankind
or
a hermit's
meditating upon the word
or
Buddha's
when he spoke of Fire ?
 
Is it some woman's hand
caressing the earth
or an infant's
who wept into existence?
An endless dream
squeezed
into transience.
 
This wakefulness is dying now .
 
They say
long ago
the hand detached front the idol..
 
The hand blessed me
from
the ledge in the corner.
My home
-in a shambles –
is
my nightmare.
 
I recall the gem-like nails
and
the fingers
and
the palm
of the bronze hand.