the hands of my father


In memory of my fiancée's dad, a righteous man, the only father I ever had in this life.


The Hands of my Father
Mario Quintana

Your hands have thick veins like blue cords
On a background of earth-coloured spots 
— how beautiful your hands are
for the way they handled, caressed or quivered 
in the nobel wrath of the righteous!
Because in your hands, my old father, 
there is that unique beauty called life.
At twilight, as they rest on the arms of your favourite chair, 
a light seems to flicker from within them...
Does it spring from the flame you have been faithfully feeding 
in this merciless, desolate world
like a man who gathers some small sticks 
and tries to kindle them despite the wind?
Ah, how they burnt and blazed at the touch of your miracle hands!
And life still transfigures their nodes,
The same life-transcending flame
Which angels shall finally call soul.

In: WEISSBORT, Daniel, ed. Modern Poetry in Translation. New Series/No.6/Winter 1994-95.
Special Feature: Modern Poetry from Brazil. King’s College London, University of London, Arts
Council funded. pp. 101.

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