Lies and Your Hands

Your hands sober as rock,

somber as jailhouse melodies,

heavy as a beast of burden,

dour as starved children.

Your hands quick as bees,

nutritious as breasts,

bold as life,

making their way with rough and smooth.

The world’s not a toy tossed by a bull—

you have it in your hands.

Oh my people,

you’re fed with lies.

And you starve,

meat and bread you need.

Who comes to no clean table for a meal,

goes away empty from the world at harvest.

People of mine,

in Asia and Africa,

Near East, Mideast, Pacifica,

and my fellows

—seven-tenths of all the world—

agèd and oblivious as your hands,

young and sprightly too.

People of mine,

those of Europe and America,

your hands are fast and indifferent,

you too, fooling,

befooled.

Oh my people,

if broadcasts lie

and presses lie

and books,

if advertisements lie on every wall and paper

and the naked haunches on the screen

and every prayer

and cradle song

and every dream,

the fiddler at the inn

and moonlight at the end of viewless days

and utterance

and language,

and nothing is not false

except your hands,

it’s so they’ll feel the potter’s touch

blind as dark

dumb as sheepdogs—

and not revolt.

And so in this dying, living world

—where we guests are greeted and sped—

this empire of dealers, this torture, just won’t end.

Nazim Hikmet
tr. after Konuk & Blasing