Bolt of desire in my chest,
And my mind is a ticking clock.
My foresight won't rest,
Confounded by utter shock.
My ribs grasp my heart,
And keep it from exploding.
Where should I even start?
Contemplation is corroding.
Out of reach, almost acquired,
Open hands to grasp,
To catch what is desired,
In hopes that it will last.
Slowly time moves ahead.
Loss of path my only dread.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem