As I ponder about the essence of beauty, 

I take a look at my mother's hands, oh how rough they are, filled wiht hard work

My thoughts go back and forth and I see her strength, growing more as a day passes by 

Tough, I think

Very tough, 

So tough that no other woman can accomplish this

I go on and think? Why my mother, hands of a labor worker, cooking, cleaning, hot water, heat, 

warm water, cold water, blisters, cuts, scrapes, old age 

I take a look at my hands and see no blisters, soft hands, representing my level

What is beauty? Is it a hard worker striving on for their family's food and shelter

Or is it appearance, those arrogant people that don't care about others

how we citizens have it easier than those which cannot bear citizenship 

Eventually we will all become one, so why fight it, instead let's help each other out

Let us the people begin to love one another because that is true beauty