Getting a grip on my life is a chore
it slips through my fingers it falls to the floor
All that I hold that is dearest to me
abandons my grasp for the floor and to flee
It cuts through the floor and falls down to the street
toward unlucky pedestrians it's likely to meet
Ever so faster it falls with the sound
of the wind and the air as it speeds to the ground
Slicing it's way the earth's rocky crust
through aeons of layers of stone, ash and dust
To blistering magma's pyretic abuse
where gold silver and diamonds lie wait to seduce
It burns through the earth to the hot iron core
as it screams to the gods not to fall anymore
Every dawn of the morning each day of my life
with the sharpness of steel on the edge of a knife
The dream flees the kitchen yet sleep somehow lingers
from depths of my mind through the tips of my fingers
A great saving catch! Well the effort was grand
and most happily futile thus saving my hand
Falling away past the tea in my cup
when it rests on the floor I can then pick it up
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem