The Wandering Map

A map’s heartbeat begins to walk alone.
Rain drums upon the edges, soft and low.
Folds that speak of roads that fade from sight.
Each symbol glows, awaiting its return.
It wanders through lanes that never shut their gaze.
The rain restores the scattered letters, piece by piece.
A cross becomes a home, a lane a memory’s keep.
The lonely map traces footsteps unseen.
As the rain recalls forgotten names, it sighs.
They are no mere names, but borders finding their way back.
The city listens close, and lost voices start to ring.
So the road is renewed, and geography takes breath.