In the market of illusions...
Each candle advances as if it were a divine message, and every trader dances
To a rhythm they cannot hear, whispering within:
I understand the game!
But the truth is simpler and harsher: whoever interprets fire from its shadow
Forgets that the wind extinguishes whatever it pleases, leaving behind ash that cannot be read.
Candles pass one after another... rise and fall...
Noise and excitement.
As for interpretations, much of them are merely tea leaves
In a crowded cup, color without taste, stories told
To calm the illusion slightly, then forgotten.