I like to watch the wind
And to pretend to grasp it firmly
By the plight of my fingertips.
Yet when I open my clenched fists
All I find is a whisper of the invisible,
A remnant of something long gone.
And I think to myself
How everything seems to be like the wind.
Everything is just out of my reach,
Forever whistling through the leaves of my fore-fathers.
It just remains a ghost of a lost hope
That I just couldn't catch.
If only I could be so lucky.