This hand, a flower, opens to the world,
takes the rain and cups the drenching sun.
On a child's head the palm can lie; curled,
the fingers through his clever hair can run.
In reaching out to greet another's reach,
my hand can speak; in conversation, learn
to grasp and build; in common labour, teach
the mind to understand, the heart to yearn.
But if the mind should clench, the heart withdraw,
and in the cause of child and labour lift
no weathered finger, nor together draw
what ready hands could stem the war-cry's drift,
then hands that profit not from peace will sever
with nuclear sword all hands from flowers forever.
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