In My Hands - A Ghazal

Iron and fur brooked the cold in my hands,
Long before there was gold in my hands.

Too many stories end with morals,
But I write of the mould in my hands.

Dreams are won on fields outside dreams,
That's where I met the bold in my hands.

In closed rooms inside my chest there lie
Victims of what I sold in my hands.

I was worn where the dream was won,
My story is the old in my hands.

It is this: my youth is my age lost
Beneath every fold in my hands.

To survive ambition was to leave
All that I could not hold in my hands.