Lines on my hand, foretold my fate
A child of seven, to meet the end at eight
I searched for a palm reader to contradict the prediction
Lost in the crowd, with no contradiction
A thin man appeared, kind and consoling
Guided me home, with words consoling
In my innocence, I asked without a plan
'How are you alive without your hands? '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem