My fingers are cold and bony,

Pitiful creations that they are

Still they breed beauty

But still are they marred.

Tendons that pop up---and down

Ligaments that stretched too long---too far

Skin that is cracked---and dry

Hands that are caked and ugly and worn.

Yet still do they pitifully create

Skeletal digits that type real quick

Stubby ends dripping with reddened ink

Joints that creak like those twigs and leaves

Left dessicated and lying on the ground.

Hands that were once held with such passion,

Mains qu'etait les trucs des Dieux

(Hands that were once the things of the Gods)

Hands that will never be touched in such a fashion.

Hands I will look upon with such scorn,

Now all they that are, they should be torn.

Rend from the wrist

So that never will they be kissed

Never again with such passion of old.

Why was I born?