The Hand that makes the world go round,
To which we are so tightly bound.
It follows norms, thats just the way,
It wants to whisper, it has no say.
It sometimes knows not what to do,
Whats right from wrong, it has no clue.
It tries its soul, to brim its wish,
Some silver spoons, some nouveau riche.
But a Hand that is so full of grace,
A perceivable one, it has not a face.
It recruits itself, to do the grind,
The point of life, it hopes to find.
It builds to last a thousand years,
Through sweat and pain and joy and tears.
Perchance to dream, a sculptor's bliss,
The Hand that builds out of nothingness.
It rocks the cradle, a dream unfurled,
Hand in Hand, it rules the world.
------ Alistair D'souza 17th Jan 2006