Being in plain rest, I sigh a thought for my dryness;
dunes of cold colors between which I look for a fountain.
Footprints might mean a hint.
The time is passing or perhaps is acting;
and myself is the thing which I am finding here.

I look at an horizon where seems to be a spring;
I take a moment to clear my sight and control my emotion.
The last stretch, careful my step.
I want to believe the waves there are not water but honey.
I approach and I approach it,
but it doesn’t appear to be closer.

I am starting to think if it’s mere confusion
instead of that prayed conversation.
I am trying not to lose hope.
That key thing is to breathe deeply is told.
Also to strip my mind from some parts of dense fabric.
But nor even ooze I found behind the mirage.
At must envisaged some prudence or shyness,
and nothing like a pure pansy at all.