These our hands, five fingers,
Two palms, twin evil bringers;
The creation of God from earth.
Earth? So they are mere dirt?
Earth perish at the hands of Earth?
This I ponder sitting at my hearth.
Man’s hand ten brothers of terror
Slave of his brain, porridge of horror.
I look at his eyes, binoculars of greed,
That takes what he wants, not his need.
His mind, the war map that never fades
And his soul, the citizen of Hades.
See the forests that were once green;
Never so again shall they be seen,
For man has stamped his fingers
And the prints they left there lingers.
In his wake do forests become desserts
That conquers the stoutest hearts.
The rivers where the fishes once swam,
In whose banks roam the footless clam;
The corral and the reefs, the oysters,
The plankton and the river monsters;
Do their carcass not now prick our noses,
Odour like the stench of sewage hoses.
One palm will pick an unwilling knife
And plunge it into the belly of his wife.
These fingers that gave a golden ring
Now makes the one that wears it cringe.
Ten fingers hold down the little girl
As into her, the evil penis is hurled!
These hands, molded earth, so little
Ten fingers so strong, yet so brittle;
They dare the forest and the mountain
And leave them behind, a sprawling plain.
They shall one day, in their time and turn,
Lie still, never again to clench or turn.
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.