In the vanishing light, whispers dance on the surface of the lake,
where the moon traces its path through the dense mist,
leaving behind traces of silver scattered across the void.
Remember the old roads, cracked and fading,
once paved with dreams of the wanderers.
They lead nowhere, and everywhere, nowhere is home.
Breath of the morning fog, a veil over the weary traveler,
each step a meditation on the transience of being,
paths shift beneath the footsteps, yet their essence remains.