Little Hand
That little hand, that busy hand
that played in sand and tossed a stone
That slept beside your weary head
that grasped your father's hand so tight
as you walked through the loud bazaar.
Oh little hand, oh busy hand!
do not be curious of that toy
that looks so strange, just lying there
where only boring reddened stones
are found among the blasted huts.
Oh little fingers, busy fingers!
find other things to touch today,
remember what your father said
about those curious, metal things
that you so want to show your friends.
Oh little hand, small brown hand!
that touch your mother's gentle face,
reach up to climb another rock
leave curious things where they lie,
and wonder not at strange delights!
Oh little hand, where are you now?
A dried, brown bandage took your place,
where brave and busy fingers played.
No, no my son, it won't grow back,
That curious thing took it away.
Oh little son, my little boy,
We loved that little hand too much
and all the games it used to play
But I have you and you have me
at least for one more hungry day.
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