Who can name
a town
where fiction ends;
foretell, as credits fade,
their journey home?
Time preys
like some lost angel,
deceiving the voyager;
a scripted adventure
striving nowhere:
canvas without wind
disturbs the artist’s hand,
till truth comes
with sharpened words;
or hope,
like a bedtime story,
invents a world
where travellers survive
till morning.
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