Write a poem entitled "Mother's Hand".

My mother's image is fading away, and my eyes are fixed on her-my hands, those giant hands, have covered what I can see with tears ... That hand is my ten fingers when I walk into the door of this world, and it is a candle at the top of an ill-conceived mountain, so that my world does not need the light and heat of the sun. It is also a pair of trembling hands. When I hold something in my hands with long nails, my veins stand out. When I was a child, my mother's hands were careless in my eyes. When cooking, my mother's hands either put more salt or less monosodium glutamate, and the taste is either too salty or too weak ... but I can't imitate my mother's hand in knitting a sweater, which has become my regret today.