As I look at the two hands before me:
Both lived the same number of years,
I can’t help notice they've aged so differently
Models of divergent lives it appears.

One hand is soft, a forgery of youth;
Evidence that love does not flow here.
The other is withered, satisfied with truth
The great love she has given is shown clear

Throughout the years the love of the withered
Has been extracted by the ones she holds dear
Though the hand is wrinkled, no youth being delivered
My choice is the worn hand, for no love is something I fear