A story with two hands

Spread your hands, wanting to cry but then laughing.

It's not as warm as it was ten years ago.

It really is my own hand.

But why does it look like someone else's hand?

How many long days and months

I'm not looking in the mirror anymore, I'm just looking at my hands.

In the old days, those delicate, slender fingers

I did not seek a peaceful place to give it away.

Who will till the soil and plow the fields?

But why is the evening so tattered, my hands?

There's still a little innocence left.

Let me send you a gift of one day, from the past.

My hands now

I can still write such gentle verses.

Still deeply moved by joy and sorrow.

I still want to express my love and trust to you.

I am mine alone.

But hands speak the language of hands...

Nguyen Thi Phuoc