Poetry

Creation of Adam

hands stretched on a vault

one still motionless

the index finger slowly leaving ground

the wrist hardly bears the weight of the palm

as if it were a stone butterfly with its wings still moist

yet unable to fly, resting

waiting

the other arm is slashed with a lightning

black as a scar

hand covered by warm living flesh

all muscles strained

everything trembles

the finger aims at his half-dead brother

and so the sleeping hand wakes up

grabs a stone

starts to work with  needle and  kiln

it gets a stick

and on a clay table

writes down all thoughts from the lethargic light-years

and then it grips a whip

a knife

a sword

a gun

as a matter of fact

both hands will never meet

although they barely touch their fingertips

still there's a gap

between them

a visible distance

Maria Kardel