Aside from the fortune lines on the palm

Reading the creases on the back of the hand

That is rough as coconut shell

 

Unlike forehead wrinkles

That are the bitter fruit yield of adversity, deploring and annoyance,

An ego-pose that is in the middle of everyone’s interest

And can be groomed as a bright and shining armour by Botox

 

It is the emblem of a life-time labour fruited in obeying behind the scene

Akin to the cow’s silent sacrifices

The undulation of toiled cells seemingly so delicate and placid

That is so humble and free

A good and true deeds of proud symbol, not in need of Botox

A top medal of gallantry gained in the front line of lifelong