The Storyteller’s Hands

How can something so plain
Carry the weight of the past?
With each crease
With each wrinkle
Is another story, another time
A time when life was simple
-and unpolluted-
Is the texture of his hands
Smooth and rigid, all in one
A history of days he’s seen
-and gone-
Are the times of his wrinkleless complexion
The tip of his nails
Stopped growing, for what is the use?
These hands are no longer in action,
These hands will never see work,
These hands are buried,
His hands are dead.