Struggling toward possible rewards,
Knowing failure means my life in vane,
Slowly washing down the drain.
Blood and tears in the same cupped hands,
Loosing what little grip I have left.
Moments before my fingers slip.
Reaching for the end at twenty-four,
Running a four hundred meter dash,
Informed later of the marathon,
Desperate now, to maintain this pace.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem