I touch fingertip to fingertip. The arch of my hands form a temple for my palms. I give them alms in the form of lotion. A small portion of lotion potion.
All the people who know me build their own temples. All the hands of the world offer alms to their palms.
The coconut doesn't fall far from the tree. Neither do the dates. They basically sit at the base of the palm and rot. A tragedy for all lovers, so many possible dates, and you let them rot.
The palm of his hand has a wrinkle. A line, a wrinkle, a fold. He was born with it, and he'll die with it. So much will change over the course of his life, but not that palm wrinkle in the temples he made with his hands.