Sometimes I wish I could jump into a story,
just fall into a dream,
into a land (un)like any other.
Where the world is formed in mountains.
Where the air stays pure and
the sun shines bright.
And if you jump high enough,
you can almost touch the sky.
Where a river flows between, below,
and houses sprout up here and there
like mushrooms on the shady hillside.
And I would be there
on those lonely sand roads
under the burning sun,
holding your hand through the sweaty days
as the only thing that could separate us
would be a nice light breeze,
running past us, tired,
dying soon with no one to hold.