I see my ceiling from my bed, so distant and aloof.
I reach out my hand, I try to get there, but I can not,
as with my dreams, my hopes, my future.
I'm so destined to remain on my bed, staring at the ceiling of my room?
No matter how far, the ceiling is there, is not only far out of reach,
as are the clouds,
the stars and
This is little, but I will suffice.