Crinkle 
Crackle 
wrinkled torn body 
reaching hands that cannot copy 
hot bright colors 
that burn into my eyes 
bringing many a tear 
and adding to my fear 
will not let it destroy me 
you can see 
the paper which so fast 
became this black ash
I will not be it 
I will not be it                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    