Digt på engelsk

Hvis man ser bort fra en periode i min pure ungdom, hvor jeg skrev engelske sangtekster i stride strømme, har jeg ikke skrevet noget lyrisk på andre sprog end dansk. Nu har jeg imidlertid forsøgt mig ud i det engelske igen, denne gang er det dog et digt:

Sometimes I miss my mother’s hands

Sometimes I miss my mother’s hands
As they were when she was young
With fingers firm and strong
Once so gentle and unique
Later unsteady and weak 

Sometimes I miss my mother’s hands
Frail parchment-like skin and blue veins
As mountains risen from the plains
Crooked fingers, arthritis bent
A touch by them, from heaven sent

The last time I saw my mother’s hands
Pale and still, without any pain
At last at rest, not to suffer again
Placed on her chest by someone unknown
Then left forever, cold and alone