Fingers Poem by Bipin Patsani

As the insatiate pen of an artist
Who wants to do wonders
But dissatisfied with the feeling
That something is missing,
My fingers ache.

My fingers, which do magic to you
And warble music
In the warm receptive softness
Of your body, now ache.
My fingers ache to move over all,
The woods, mountains, oceans
And stars as well, like wind
And to fondle both the happy
And the wretched of the earth.

The fingers which often deflower buds
And play on the pervasive piano,
The fingers which till the land,
Grow orchards and spray out parasites,
The fingers which run machines and
Business, are striving now for perfection,
Aching for the rapture of playing
With fire, be it infernal or ethereal,
Or maybe to pass from one to the other
Washing away in the furnace
All stale insipid infiltrations.