In the quiet morning light, they speak,Whispers of touch, soft and meek.Guiding the heart through unseen lands,These gentle, noble, tireless hands.In creation’s realm, they weave and spin,Crafting dreams with a tender grin.Each movement a story, unspoken, profound,Building bridges on sacred ground.Hands that heal, hands that mend,Holding the broken, helping to transcend.A language of comfort, in their embrace,Finding solace in their gentle grace.As stars fade and night turns to day,These hands continue their endless play.In their dance, a promise softly stands,A testament to love in simple hands.