Anxiety is there, at the stroke of every pen
She sits by degrees on my fat, stubby fingers.
Between my elephantine words she hides,
After every minuscule period she lingers.
In the hesitation of speech she is heard,
At the back of my swallowed words she lies.
Never am I relieved of her bitterness,
Not even in the highs of my miserable life.
She is as quick as the light that falls,
Sturdier than the very last man standing.
In every No Man's Land she resides,
She lives on, long after my ending.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem