Where the sun bleeds into the horizon,
whispers of dust cradle the evening chill,
a traveler treads on thoughts unspoken,
beckoning soft shades of elm and silence.
Crickets weave their nightly serenades,
tales in the language of shadows,
kissing the air with stories of dreams,
where stillness weaves a tapestry of stars.
What lies beyond this vertigo of desires?
A compass spun round with aching fervor,
cradled in the palms of ageless winds,
summoning the heart to dance with dusk.
Seek not maps, nor boundaries drawn,
but the gentle pulse of wandering souls,
the laughter of rivers, the sigh of mountains,
winding songs of time in every step taken.
Step lightly on this fabric of night,
embrace the westward path unfurling anew,
as dreams blossom in unmarked fields,
lay your burdens down, and simply be.