I stretch my hand wide open,
To as far as my longest finger can reach,
My heart yearns to unfold,
To hold,
On the dreams young now old,
That I may once feel the fulfillment of owning.
It yearns to own that slip between its fingers.
One that is already gone.
Everytime the dream gets close
There's always a thin line between victory and loss.
leaving me close enough to feel but not touch.
To be filled but not quenched.
So familiar to be mine but none.
It has been long roam,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem