Uncanny memory
and science
tell us to control ice.
Science and sense
tell us we have been,
but with insensitive hands
that are hot-aridifying
and squeezing us
into pockets cooled by heating.
Life outside is being mass-extinguished
and fingers inside
are sensitively turning up the dial.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It seems the drug and the cold stuff need control