Trembling it holds me,
Love at each finger's end.
With slight movements,
A message it attempts to send.
It tells me that it's dying,
And deprived of affection,
like the body it belongs to,
filled with a spreading infection.
I love the person
Who's the owner of this aged hand.
My love is real,
I do not pretend.
For this hand was once young,
Touched both hot and cold.
A hand that's aged,
Is more valuable than gold.
Biana Yanovsky