Our hands, they create.

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You can tell a lot about a person just by looking at their hands. 

Every crease, 

every wrinkle, 

every scar, 

every vein, 

has a story to tell. 

Our hands 

they remember things, 

catching us when we fall. 

Our hands, 

allow us to connect, 

fingers intertwined. 

Our hands, 

they create. 

 

A pair of hands sets down a basket as they finish its final weave. 

Dry and callused, 

bleeding with knowledge and experience. 

A pair of hands ties the final knot of a rug. 

Aching and tired, 

complete… all but a single missed thread. 

A pair of hands guides the hands of another. 

Gentle with wisdom, 

they pass on their skills. 

Their hands, 

They create.

 

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My hands, 

they are still young. 

Delicate to touch, 

shallow wrinkles, few scars. 

My hands, 

they are full of knowledge. 

Taught by those more practised. 

My hands, 

guided by my Grandma’s, 

learnt to sew. 

Like riding a bike, 

my hands, 

they will not forget this. 

My hands, 

they create. 

 

Our hands, 

They will never be perfect.

But our hands, 

They tell a thousand stories without a single word. 

Our hands, 

They create. 

 

By Sarah Watts

ACCOMPANIED BY IMAGES FROM OUR NEPAL PROJECT ARTISANS.

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