Today, on the day of the Artisans, we wanted to dedicate a beautiful poem to them, without them we would be nothing... thank you very much, to your hands that create art, continue culture and help keep our customs and traditions alive.

To my hands of Artisan

"My hands were the source, of all my adventures,

makers of ideas, creators of crafts.
With them I modeled the clay, I made wood carvings.
with them I forged steel, worked leather and stone.
With them I tilled the earth and watered the dry gravel,
They scattered the seeds and raised the harvest.
With them I made a garden, above my house,
and I planted it with a thousand flowers, fused with the stars.

My hands made ships, ships that never sail,
They also made dolls that neither speak nor fight.
They played a guitar, and on a piano they tried,
when walking through its keys, some chord was achieved.
Never!!, my hands made, some masterpiece,
But it wasn't their fault, let's blame it, my incompetence.
My creative hands, today they look withered, dry,
perhaps a little tired, from many tasks done.

They were once closed, preventing a brawl,
other times they were fists, defending some offense.
But never! They got dirty by picking up someone else's garment,
maybe yes, they regretted, having been an open hand.
Many times they entwined, reciting a prayer,
asking God for a favor, begging God for forgiveness.
They should have carried the coffin of my two old loved ones,
with a lot of pain and sorrow, when a friend left us.
If some night of partying, by the drinks stunned,
groping some walls, they brought me to my house.

My hands protected me when I had a fall,
and ugly they hurt themselves, to protect me from injuries.
They also covered my face, when I cried I cried
And yes, they wiped away my tears, feeling relieved.
I apologize to my hands, if they made any mistake,
It will not have been their fault, it was my unconsciousness.
My hands no longer drive, nor picks, shovels, pots,
They don't have the young strength to deal with tools.
But yes, they help me a lot, when I have an idea,
when playing on the keyboard, developing a poem.

There they feel happy, as if they were fifteen-year-olds,
dancing with the words, sometimes branding the letters.
My hands gave caresses, to children, my own and others,
and they also intertwined, walking some path.
How much I love my hands! how much love I have towards them,
I want to pay tribute to two great companions,
in literary intent, of pretended poet,
Maybe I didn't say it? We are the same age
And if God grants it to me, they will bury me with them."

nicolas ferreira