Beneath the copper skies, they whisper the riddle,
Questions steeped in threads of old Martian vine.
Where do the rivers of caffeine run clean?
On crimson sands, Java embers flicker,
Souls adrift on visions, unspoken like dew.
Have your dreams reached out, echoing anew?
A nostalgic haze clings, something logs upon digital logs—but perhaps,
twilight speaks otherwise.
Under skies never seen, the crimson echoes repeat.
When ancient machines click in kaleidoscope dreams,
Do the martian winds answer the gathered questions?