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If just to imagine that I would have been sent to prison for the rest of my days, it would mean that I’ve done something really unacceptable and probably even more... Knowing myself I know that I would blame myself until the last day spent on this earth. I know that it would mean that I wound the hearts of my family, loved man and friends. Anyway I’m sure that they would visit me as much as it’s possible in that place. I think that in situation like that I would have taken a picture done by me in my native land, that’s the picture of sunset. Why sunset? For me it’s a very symbolic time of the day, when the day becomes night and the sun leaves. Being sent to prison for the rest of the days, is a kind of sunset in the life of anyone. There are plenty of reasons to take this picture, it would remind about my home, it would help from claustrophobia in the moist prisoner camera and who knows may be would give hope for another chance as after any sunset there comes sunrise...













Body
A
Monday, November 27, 2006
Hands live to caress and love.
Hands live to fight and die.
Forever living hands, forever exploring are hands.
Remarkable hands, storied hands.
Hands, hands can build.
Hands can mold, shape, and speak.
Hands can grasp for the heavens, touch it and believe in the make believers.
Through the fingers thoughts explode as pen touches paper.
Tones and melodies erupt from inner emotions becoming reality.
Heart and soul become one as fingers scrawl quickly, feverishly.
Pounding blood surges through the fingers forcing the pen onward, causing tears to fall from an eye.
Truth flows from the mind; the hand transports it into being.
Embracers of the brush, digits move carefully following intricate lines drawn on canvas.
Colors blend together, vibrant, beautiful, soaring to mosaics of sky and water.
The calming sense of touch slows the scene until order graces the fabric.
Forgotten til’ their lost.
Forgotten until they are crippled, hands are taken for granted for their life giving talent.
Bent and crooked they are silenced from the song they once sang.
Memories now distant are relegated to the wall or museums.
Dusty shelves house the books of the once pulsating, vital, movements that the hand generated.
Hands have saved lives and taken them just as easily.
They create the saviors of life as well as the purveyors of death.
Creating and destroying with a single move a finger can move mountains or search the unknown heavens.
Hands live to caress and love.
Hands live to fight and die.
Forever living hands, forever exploring are hands.
2. 'Poem for hands'
by Sarah McGreevy

Sign
Talk
Breathe
Hands
Palm pond
Mirror of me.
A picture of you.
Lines on hands
On fingers
A different sort of writing
Tell me my fortune
Or us your imagination:
Lucky in life
One day
Finger prints
None the same
All different
Life changes
Imagine a life story
In your hands
Tell me your story:
3. "My hands are clean, but my heart has somewhat of impurity."
Euripudes

4. "The wise hand does not all the tongue dictates."
Cervantes (Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra)

5. "There is no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand."
William Shakespeare





