THE OLD MAN AND HIS HANDS

Until the long, long night is over

His weary way he makes

And watches when he wakes

And there at rest upon the cover

Sees his hands, both left and right

Worn-out servants, wooden, tight

And he chuckles

Softly, not to wake his knuckles.

Undaunted, they’ve worked hard and true

When most have had enough

For they’re still strong and tough.

There’s even more that they could do.

But though these faithful vassals stay

They’d like to rest and turn to clay

And say goodbye

To serfdom, for they’re drained and dry.

Softly, not to wake his fingers

The old man laughs again

And life’s long winding lane

Seems short, and yet the night still lingers

On and on … And children’s hands

And young men’s hands, and old men’s hands

Look just like these when all the sands

Of time have gone.