I once knew a woman
With lines on her face,
Who had spent much of her life
In a faraway place.

A place where those lines
Were honored, revered—
Where it was known
They held the wealth of her years.

But here, somewhere else,
Aging was feared.
She made us all see
That beauty lasts through the years.

One day she stood
And gathered a crowd.
She started to speak
As we listened, spellbound.

We hung onto each word,
Completely entranced—
For her voice was strong,
Knowing, and wise.

She smoothed down the crown
Of hair on her head,
Then lifted her chin
And with confidence said:

"These lines are not something
To hide or to fear—
But marks that declare:
‘I have lived. I was here.’

They cannot be counted
Like bars on a cage,
But like rings on a tree
That grow stronger with age.

Rooted and vast,
Resilient and proud—
I have earned every line,
And I wear them out loud.

And though you may think
I’d look better without,
Just wait till you learn
What each one’s all about.

Because I am so much more
Than how I appear—
And these lines on my face
Are like lines from a book.

They hold all the stories
Of what came before me,
So come, sit down,
And I’ll tell you, my story."