Clouds draw traces in the sky,
as if someone placed them there
to point to something yet to come.
Beneath my feet, the earth moves gently,
stories slumber in the ground,
a shadow of something that almost exists.
My hands reach for the unseen,
shaping images from light and longing,
forgotten rooms, unsung songs.
Somewhere, just out of reach,
breathes a world I dream of,
softly waiting for me to find it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem