My hand shakes and quivers a bit <br />At times of importance, times of joviality. <br />My face burns like the ring of a hob, <br />My hands slide like melting plastic. <br /> <br />And the head is adrift, treacherously, <br />A lost ship close to jagged rocks. <br />The mind’s on the island asking why <br />The warning sign is always burning in the sky.<br /><br />Seán O Muiríosa<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/burn-7/
