Hands Poem by Cicero Grey

When a hand reaches out to shake another
The crowd draws in, bodies press against each other
Clawing fingers, scratching fingers, push the hands apart
In fear of change and losing what they hold dear to their heart

Be it oil, or water, or happiness
be it paper bills, or gold
It's with pride and greed and jealousy
That these clawed hands tightly hold

Yet the troughs of wrinkled, famished hands
Hold nothing but dry wind
Their pain is caused by trick of fate
For never had they sinned

So this is why the wealthy
And the poor cannot make peace
So long as one hand's full
The empty one's pain will not cease

Be it oil, or water, or happiness
Be it paper bills, or gold
It's with pride and greed and jealousy
That these clawed hands tightly hold

If we all took the chance
And put down what we hold in hand
Then we'd all be the same, and maybe then we'll understand
That peace will never come from oil, water, bills, or gold
It's peace when we forget these things
And each other's hand we hold