So I wrote a poem. It isn't supposed to rhyme or anything, although sometimes it might. As the timeless saying goes, it is what it is.
"These Hyur Hands" by Yaein Mayweather
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"These Hyur Hands" by Yaein Mayweather
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Eorzea was never a world written in text,
and I may never be able to call myself a scholar.
But that’s okay, because I learned with my hands.
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First, these Hyur hands taught me how to take hold.
A dream of a dream
I learned how to grasp the thing in between,
holding it so tightly until one day,
it became part of me.Â
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Secondly, these Hyur hands taught me how to plant Rolanberries.
And the dirt in my fingernails served as bookmarks
for where I last left off in the lesson that...
there was nothing wrong with getting your hands dirty.
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Thirdly, these Hyur hands taught me how to string a bow.
To grasp a hilt of a sword was the extension of one’s arm,
but the shaft clasped to a bow was the expression of one’s soul.
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Fourthly, these Hyur hands taught me how to read.
So that now I can read my Chocobo's body language
no longer lost in translation
upon my callused fingers. Â
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Fifthly, these Hyur hands taught me about Hyur hands.
How our fingers aught to be interlock with the grace
that a weaver spins cloth and synthesis a bond
where even through failed crafting, it will never be lost.
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And Sixth, these Hyur hands taught me about me.
To hold on to my dreams and never let them go.
That there was nothing wrong with getting my hands dirty.
To string a bow to defend my heart, country and home.
That with these calloused fingers, I may never be a scholar
But I can learn with my hands, everything I’ll ever need to know.
