These Hands

These hands,
these dry, wrinkly hands,
desert–born, salty,
clumsy hands
that once held a heap
of Xenakis’ manuscripts
and brushed Varèse’s gong,
estas manos que se han de comer los gusanos,
as the Mexican saying goes,
these inert hands from
a long–gone era,
these skin–cracked, tired,
useless hands, though dead,
still remember what it felt like
to touch you.