My hand shakes and quivers a bit
At times of importance, times of joviality.
My face burns like the ring of a hob,
My hands slide like melting plastic.
And the head is adrift, treacherously,
A lost ship close to jagged rocks.
The mind’s on the island asking why
The warning sign is always burning in the sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem