The desert mirage has magical effects on the hearts.
The hearts which are thirsty for kindness and tenderness.
The hearts that relentlessly rush towards the dreamy monuments of great hopes.
The dreamy unworldly hopes,
which only exist on the expanse of the horizon of the arid lifeless wastelands.
The hearts that are exhausted by the inferno of the scorching desert sun,
and the coldness of its nights,
which freezes the pulse of life in those agonized veins.
Those hearts that have no consolation,
except for the moaning of sadness, and the grumbling of pains.
Those hearts that embrace the sand of death in their sleep,
and cover themselves up with the all-encompassing cosmic darkness.
The cosmic darkness that does not allow anything to be seen through it,
except the oceans of blackness,
that swallows the souls in the catacombs of the caves of nothingness.
The nothingness that calls for the lost souls among the black dunes of darkness.
Those hearts that drink cactus when they are thirsty,
and eat sand when they get hungry.
Those hearts that could see the ghosts of terror walking in the darkness,
and the horrific roaming panic spreading on the horizon.
The horror of the void that makes the hearts fall into the abyss of the nonexistence.
Those hearts that always dream of drinking from the fountain of pure tenderness,
that springs under the tall palm trees.
The tall palm trees that never cease from offering lush shades,
to all weary travelers under their tranquil shades.
But the arid desert will not cease to be a wasteland without water for the weary travelers,
and the mirage in the desert will not cease to be an illusion for any thirsty heart.