Pardon those clouds of dust,
Weaving along the hazed thirst,
Some scattered, and some were torn,
In the nights of the awake road.
Pardon those storm of the quest,
Flipping across thyself, again,
Some in minds of myth, some but not,
In the words of the lost route.
And also, pardon them and me,
Gushing through, to the end,
Some for senses and other return,
In the hush of the scattered road.