My hands, too small to grasp a dream in its gentle flight

My hands, too small to grasp a dream in its gentle flight, Yet too large to capture their attention, to hold them in their delicate thread. What am I, if not art, just a simple presence without contour, Perhaps just the frame that surrounds a story, without a murmur of its own? In the flow of my thoughts, I wonder who I truly am, If perhaps I've only been a frame, a space too wide, too flat. My hands cannot keep the magic of the dream that unravels easily, Nor capture the gazes that fly like birds without flight. I wonder what remains of me when everything disappears like mist, Just an echo of unfulfilled dreams, a shadow that clings to my life. But perhaps the frame has its own beauty, in its subtle silence, Like a silent witness to art, giving it form, but never speaking out. Thus, I continue to weave my thoughts in this inner labyrinth, Searching for meaning, a light, a fragment of the dream I long for. And even when my hands seem powerless in the face of destiny, I remain a part of the story, a necessary outline of the mystery.