As I sit on the old chair br I look at my hand lying br On the table, both so worn br With use, and lined with age. br Both relics of a bygone era, br Both have seen so much use. br These hands are scarred, br Criss-crossed with reminders br Of old wounds, and old times. br These hands are old, and as I look br The steadiness fades, and they shake br Reminding me that maybe these hands, br These ancient hands, br Stiff hands, scarred hands, br Old hands, and worn hands br Aren't what I remember them to be.