As far as I can see into the imaginary,

There's a thousand visits to be made and played,

But as I write I know I'm not a visionary,

Only a girl of that place, that imaginary world.

How did I first fall in love with that world so distant?

A place cold, bright, lively and peaceful,

A place where all from the mind of writer is resistant,

Yet I have found an array of the wonderful.

Who knows who I shall meet next?

Whether servant girl, Queen or Countess,

I am sure they shall fit easily into whichever context,

Meek as a lamb or proud as a lioness.

Some say the novel is an allaborate lie,

But I say take a look into the oracle of imagination,

Pause a little, close your eyes, give your mind a try,

You might just discover some new sensation.

Long, short or just a moments glance,

Every story-teller knows the inspiration fire,

The one which holds us in a fantastic trance,

Until the very last day, at which, we die.

The End

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