The Hand Reader

It was a misty morning in Moscow— When fate and palm first softly crossed, In gilded halls where secrets sleep, I met a man both sharp and lost. An oligarch with eyes of frost, Berezovsky, his name well known, His smile—a veil for storms within, His heart, a throne turned into stone. He ushered me with silken grace, Into his room where silence spoke, "Read my palm," he said at last— A gambler’s plea, beneath his cloak. I held his hand—so square, so cold, Cone fingers clasped in power’s pride, Upon Apollo’s mount, a cross, Where truth and fate can never hide. A sunline rose from roots below, Toward the light it dared to climb, Then split and died before it touched The line where love outlives its time. I saw the fall, the court, the grief, The shadows cast by old regret, “You’ll lose,” I said, “and wealth will flee— And sorrow you will not forget.” His brows grew dark, his silence deep, “What can I do to change this tide?” “To Congo we must go,” I said, “To bathe where spirits still abide.” “Beneath the rubber tree we'll kneel, And wash in Congo’s sacred flow, To twist the hand the stars have drawn— Before despair begins to grow.” But pride, it spoke much louder still, He shook his head and turned away, “I’ll win,” he said, “my will is strong— No jungle god will rule my day.” September’s dusk came with a call, His voice now cracked by pain and truth, “You were the one,” he said in tears, “I should have listened in my youth.” “And now, I bow before the stars, Before your art I once defied— If life returned, I’d walk the path, Of palm and sky, where truths reside.”