My fingers are stiff on the cement wall;
The dry paint holds onto my hand.
It’s a glove aged four grainy years
Which is left as a timeline on the wall.

They said that it goes fast.
We were young.
For us, time moved slowly.
After all, the clock rotates 24 times a day
And our eyes naively were turned from the time.
But those 24 hours go by fast
When you’re not counting the minutes.

Not everything was documented,
The only photographs are accessible only in our memories.
We were too caught up to capture them.
It will be our biggest regret.

We hoped to change the world,
The seniors were saints to us,
We wondered if we would be too
When it was our turn.

But how does it feel to be a god?
After four years, the feeling never came.
Has the heaven created for us to see
been held up by us?
Or are we just pedestrians walking though?

But now, it’s time to go.
The dust on the floor lasted longer than us.
The one mark that will be ours
may not lead to heaven,
but it will last.

Our handprints
are proof that we’ve touched something.