The next time you'll die from thirst
And your soul will expire in the blasted wasteland
You call existence
You'll ask
And not for the first time
If that's all there is to it
If there's any meaning to be found
If you have searched in vain
And next time you won't have to bother.
 
And between the sands
A whisper will be heard
Cold and sad and scared
And yet terribly, unrealistically brave
It is your own voice, after all
And it'll say
"Maybe. Try again".