Rough brown hands. Tired hands. Weary resignation to no rest for a long, long time. Strong hands. Worker hands. Hands encrusted with earth and grime and song. Scars and callouses can be read like print. They tell a story that never changes. Up with the sun, those hands. Clutching plows till dark. They are weary of the plow, but it is their only grasp on survival. At night they dream of dancing across the keys of a piano.
Thin, delicate hands. Elegant and swift. Long fingers. Unblemished skin. Pale hands. They drift and dance and flourish, flirting with the air. Why is it the pale hands that get to dance? They laugh, and lightly grasp a glass of wine. Why a glass for the pale hands, but a plow for the dark ones? But these pale hands wish they could drop the wineglass and watch it shatter. They are tired of dancing. These elegant hands are tired of being fragile. They are trapped and burdened, but it is their role to appear light. By day, they are dainty, fluttering butterflies. Only in their dreams can they dig into the cool, moist earth.
