It’s hard to make things last
waiting for something
to mean more than it should.
Thinking about time
it’s a luxury taken for granted;
it’s something I can’t figure out.
Wasting it all with no purpose
I know I’ll be fine, for it’s no choice
but the only reflex.
Gone away are the happy stories
we went all this way
just to treasure a wonderful pain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem