Cartographer’s lines are more than the strokes created by the utensil,
But hints of childhood, and the touch of creativity
Along with their memories
The bend the hill’s to fit their eyes
stretch the seas to touch the skies
chart the lands as they see fit
So that the lines hold fear, fate, and power
They trace the roads they’ve traveled long
The wind’s soft hum, the tree’s soft blows
A map that is not just land and sea,
but whispers of their wishes
They sketch the world to be theirs
Not as is, but as beleived
Although the compass tells no lies,
A map’s true corse is drawn from each stroke
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