Poem Analysis: 'Give Me Your Hands'

GIVE ME YOUR HANDS

“Give me your hands”. She cried in silence, trembling with cold and fear. Poor kid, she should be dead. If I were half the man I think I am, I would put an end to her pain. “Give me your hands,” he insisted, raising his voice, though his tone remained soft. “Uh?” “Come on. Trust me”. He reached out his own square, heavy, dirty hands. He kept them still, inviting her to hold them. She stared at him. She saw a weary face, an unkempt bushy, mostly white with the odd gray patch. Through the shaggy mop of hair sticking out out from beneath a faded blue baseball cap, his vivid eyes told of desperation and a hint of madness. She went back to his hands. They were still there, comforting. She swallowed hard and wiped her tears with long

They seldom returned after a raid, nothing was left behind but burnt land. Alas this time there was a girl. Not my business, he insisted angrily as he walked away, and was startled to realize that he was crying. After all the horror he had witnessed, he should be tougher. He wasn´t. He stopped.
***
The snow gathered strength and he returned to the present. She was talking with a smile. Her hands remained cradled between his. He could smell her laughter, her joy, her dreams and that opened the door to memory; to pain. He recalled a kite in the sky and a small boy jumping, trying to reach it. And the stories he read at night to that child. And someone whispering that she loved him. And the flavor of a cool beer ... And suddenly, the picture changed and the day the sky covered with fire hit him with force. He winced. The girl, Marianne, fell quiet, but still smelled of hope and her hands were happy in their warm shelter. The man reached in his pocket with one of his hands. He held hers with the other. “I bet yoy can sing,” he said. The girl nodded. She kept her eyes closed. “Sing me one of those nice songs, ok? Will you do that for