Manos Adoradas

The hands that I want, the hands that I adore
Are not pink nor pale
Their fingers don't look like ten pearly gems
They're not painted, nor do they have haughtiness
They're wrinkled hands, perhaps the most humble
And they're like dry leaves from so much work
These holy hands are my mother's hands
The ones that lovingly gave me bread

The hands that I want, my mother's hands
Light as birds, always flying
My mother's hands, agile and joyful
If they're not doing something, they're never still
Rustic and old, how beautiful her hands are!
Washing so much laundry, cutting so much bread
Running around the house, caressing the table
Looking for the needle and thimble in the rest

The hands that brought the lamp to my bed
Covering my back in the cruel winter
That dried my tears when I was sad
That, when I was sick, caressed me
Oh, beloved hands! Oh, hands full of soul!
In them, I would like to shelter my forehead
And sadly I say: how far they are
How far from my anguish and my loneliness! I love you, Mom