Sixteen percent through
half of the climb,
dusted with starting over again
An explosion of something that's
new and a thousand years old,
whispering wishes and then
We're grasping at still air,
clenching a tighter fist every moment,
trying to fly until we sink
Portals and keyholes,
drowning until we've been saved,
Must be love on the brink
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem