The hands that fed me
slept hungry for nights
struggling for survival they
had been bruised in many fights.
The hands that fed me
did not demand favours
they never asked questions
preferred to be naive than being clever.
The hands that fed me
were rough and hard
they obeyed and apologized everyday
to bring for me softness and warmth.
The hands that fed me
aged too soon
their wrinkles showing face too early
and their skin starting to get loose.
I could spot greys in their hair
and breaks in their speech
I could sense their lonely fears
the fear of not being able to feed.
Their outline began stooping
and their grip accompanied shivers
they started growing pale
but did not stop for the sake
of my bright future.
The hands that fed me
were the strongest hands I’ve ever known
they accepted to kneel and be lowered
so that I can live a life
with my head never bowed.
The hands that fed me
loved me more than their pride
they surrendered in front of life
to make me free and alive.
I try feeding the ones I love as well
it tastes good but never the same
maybe I’ll never be as strong
because the hands that fed me
had itself endured all the pain!

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