The riddle

I am the road walking
along my self
having been tired
waiting for passengers


I am the ink flowing
 like an ocean
 beneath the earth


I am the drop
falling for for years and
has never become a sea



I am the dust
on a poor man's foot
waiting for his idea
to turn a thing a ton


I am the lust
weakening for ages
until this time that souls
won't stop come and be gone

I am the elephant
flying for centuries
waiting for the man
with the whitest tusks