The Eternal Deceiver

That world of dreams beyond the river—is it built from love's passion, or the stubborn architecture of obsession?

As river waves break the shore, will hope's house too crumble?
What you had believed was love...
Was the wind's warning mere shadow of fear, or reality's harsh mirror?

Ah, love! It is itself a reckless wanderer—
sometimes dancing in rapture, sometimes dissolving in the deep blue of wounded nights.
It kindles the lamp of dreams, then suddenly snuffs it out in a gust.

Yet the heart understands nothing—it returns as a pilgrim of the path
in words, in touch, in memory's evergreen shade.

Is love then a mirage? Or an eternal vigil awakened beyond the river?