In the absence of rivers, the roads are dry mirrors.
Reflecting the sunlight, mocking the shadow of your thirst.
Oh, how the parched wanderer longs for liquid illusions,
Chasing puddles that never were, on roads that never run.
The trees whisper, secrets only absorbed by leaves—
"Oblivion is a mirage," they say, nestled in rumors of rain,
where each drop is a story untold, unwritten, on the skin of the earth.
Yet, the paths carry forth, light-seeking and waterless,
traversing through laughter and irony,
"Was it ever a path at all?" wonders the traveler,
as visions of streams slip through fingers like whispered truths.
We are but shadows on these arid trails,
seeking solace in the shadows of revelations,
where light paints illusions, forging laughter,
and irony dances lightly, upon the skin of the wind.