A warrior's hand

Struggling against the skin are purple veins.
Paper-thin, translucent, and pale.
Brown marks from years that she can't remove, thin fingers shaped like monsters.

She can no longer accomplish so many things since she is wrinkly, feeble, and hurting.
She occasionally feels as though she has been betrayed by the cruelties of growing older.

She massages her hands to relieve the pain while thinking back on the life they contributed to.
She mourns their loss as she observes them, noting how expensive life is.

These hands, which kept her kids close, tenderly dried their sticky tears.
Her husband was gripped tightly by hands that did not budge during the struggle.

Miraculous hands that calmed and provided protection.
Her hands communicated every mood she had.
Hands that were so powerful they could support the weight and that would never abandon them.

Those hands that never took but always gave, hands that celebrated every success.
individuals tender, kind hands softly cared for individuals who were ill or lost in gloomy sorrow.

That day, her husband gave their daughter away with fussy, clumsy hands.
As she stood by his side, those hands caressed his brow as he died gradually.

The hands that patiently took over when others became unable of rocking her grandson to sleep.
She prayed to our God above with the hands that once clasped everyone she loved.

Hands that always showed such generosity, hands that show a life well-lived.
Small, frail hands that are now empty and frigid are hands that will continue to age each day.

She now tends to conceal her hands, which occasionally cause her to feel ashamed.
They sit in her lap as she sobs quietly. In her eyes, they are grotesque and useless.

But I can clearly see the heroic hands of a lady who overcame all that life had to throw at her.
a woman with hands of a warrior who left her mark on this planet, a woman who
se heart still shines like gold.