Do you discern the boot-prints in the sands,
Or castles constructed by ant-sized hands?
Are vermilion clouds from the sun's last ray,
Or crimson cotton from the dying day?

Are bent and broken stalks just trampled grass,
Or stooped elders waiting wisdom to pass?
Is the rustling just wind weaving through leaves,
Or unseen choirs crooning myriad hymns?

Are waves just battering the sandy shore,
Or armies, drawn by tales of monstrous lore?
Are those just flying dandelion seeds,
Or children fleeing to claim new house deeds?

Is lightning, just nature playing its part,
Or is it merely heaven's misfired dart?
Are missing parts just phases of the moon,
Or was it stolen by some thief in noon?