Hands

Oh how frail stone turns
Here in may hand's hold,
It slips away like sand therethrough.

It rests a Midas-like curse
Here on my hand's hold.

I bear a Midas-like curse

Frail,
I feel my hands numb,
A phrase
All through my hands.

Grains, till my old hand goes on, afraid,
Tracing vane odes for the grave,
Only vane odes for the grave.

I can not feel the texture
With my hand's thumb
As all I touch become true.

The evil Midas-like curse here in my hands
Make me unable to hold.