My grandmother's hands are soft and wrinkled,
But are lifeless like a corpse and look crinkled.
They've always moved over my head,
While narrating tales on my cozy bed.

They've grown terrible and old,
That they quiver in the seasons hot and cold.
Those hands have always moved across the wool,
For weaving my sweaters while sitting on her little tool.

My grandmother is no more,
But I love her from my heart's core.
Her hands will no more run over my head,
But those tales would be forever with me that she'd read.

Her hands would come in my dreams,
Touching my head while shining like light beams.
Her voice will tell the stories of fairies and beasts,
In all my pretty dreams at least.

© Samridhi Sahay