The red sand goes on and on,
In a croked line that makes the road,
Trees tying the road together on both banks,
preventing it from spilling ino the forest,
The leaves above sometimes hide,
The patterns that the clouds make in the sky,
There is a river nearby, or a rivulet,
I can hear it but can't see it,
Are there footprints? There are none,
I have never been here,
Yet this place looks so familiar,
Is this what the call Deja Vu?
In a croked line that makes the road,
Trees tying the road together on both banks,
preventing it from spilling ino the forest,
The leaves above sometimes hide,
The patterns that the clouds make in the sky,
There is a river nearby, or a rivulet,
I can hear it but can't see it,
Are there footprints? There are none,
I have never been here,
Yet this place looks so familiar,
Is this what the call Deja Vu?
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