delicate hands, weak without the wind.
My fingers are thick and short, so they
are not suitable for playing the piano, and clumsy typing
is not a reader who holds a pen
My parents say that such fingers
are born to be poor working people
and they have to do rough work all their lives
So I knock on the door with my fingers
for fear of shocking the master < I've never worn a ring
and I've never been stained with brightly colored nail polish
It's thick and short, and I'm always trimming my nails
I think about the fate of poor working people
My father's fingers have been holding hoes for years, with thick cocoons
It's really dark on his temples,
My mother's fingers are pierced with countless needle holes
In winter, I hold them. Parents' fingers
are like dry fields, with cracks
illiterate mothers, holding textbooks
under the oil lamp, pointing to Chinese characters
for me to recognize, and I dare not admit my mistakes
holding the finger with inner pain.