Hands are raising towards the sky.
A sea of single hands.
Skin so fair,
looking, searching for wrinkles ready to touch, help.
None was found.
The sea of open hands turns into pointing fingers.
Full of attitude, angry at the empty sky.
Angry at the emptiness once full of protection.
Angry at the aid which fails to come.
Angry at the loneliness.
Anger becomes desperation.
Desperation becomes hopelessness.
Hopelessness takes the strenght from some arms.
Fewer and fewer are the pointing fingers.
Some just give up.
But with a ray of light comes a realization,
and fingers turn into open hands again.
Hands that support each other.
Hands that don’t need something to save them,
they are their own salvation.
A sea of single hands is now a web,
intertwining those once pointing fingers,
passing strength on and throughout.
Hope is there again
and the untried skin is not alone anymore.