I'm about to say something
that you might misunderstand,
So dont.
The tales were real,
The blood was a river, yes.
And it had its fleet
Through benign and harsh seasons,
Along the immense channels and plains,
Against the deceiving circumvent allure
Of deathly rocks and gliding monsters.
But like every nomad,
Each course has a consummation.
For such, at the place
Where it meets the ocean.
Like a leaf at its own time
Falls from its life source
Void of going back.
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