In the Grip of Your Hands

In the Grip of Your Hands Your hands may be rough and calloused, yet they hold me in the gentlest warmth. They see only the sweat upon your skin, but I see a river, patiently carving its way through solid rock. Your spine is a ridge of towering mountains, bearing the weight of the sky. Cold winds howl, and heavy rains strike your face, yet you do not break; you only grow stronger. You strive for halal sustenance, earning through honest hands and a sincere heart, following the path of righteousness taught by the Messenger of Allah ﷺ. When I look into your eyes, I see the exhaustion your words may never confess; your skin bears the redness of the sun, yet the heat of each day does not consume you. Instead, it tempers your spirit, turning raw iron into something precious. You are the mighty oak that stands through the long hours of daylight, but when night falls, your branches soften around me, and I find my shelter in you. And as you labour through each day, I whisper my prayers to Allah, asking that no harm befall you, that His protection surround you wherever you go, and that every honest effort you make return to you as barakah. For beneath those hardworking hands lives a heart I pray will always find peace, and within your embrace, I find a home the world could never build for me.