In the twilight of forgotten harbors, where the moon sings to the restless waves,
there lies a map, inked in the language of stars.
Shadows of ships unfurl their sails in silence,
tracing stories upon the water's breath.
A carousel of echoes spins endlessly,
merchants of dreams sell bottled whispers and
stars plucked from the midnight sky,
each a fragment of unreality.
The cobbled alleys twist like lines of poetry,
leading to doorways that open to nowhere,
a sanctuary for the lost thoughts of the ancients.
O the ghostly lanterns that sway,
illuminating visions of ports unvisited,
where we must tread softly, barefoot on clouds.