wings

the man was unfolding his hands , finger by finger they were huge and slowly opening up like those flowers  petal after petal. He was looking at them or maybe just resting his eyes upon acknowledging their expanse;  they were so wide they could have grabbed an animal back or hold steady a tent shaken by winds . Hands of several years taken to till a land and sow the future of others, as many different hands I had already seen, they belonged to a man sitting in the metro train opposite to me, he was talking to his pal in a language that was more guttural than greek and more nasal than chinese. Sailor hats well down their heads. Russian people discussing their elections, or maybe talking about work or  how to find. Any job will leave those hands half emptied . Hands half emptied are like cropped wings, they cannot fly but still they must have the memory of the large , still the heart attached to them must push them outside the window into the sky. I was happy to sit opposite to them in the last metro train, we could eventually fly at any moment.