A needle made of bone and magnet-stone,
It does not point to North or to the Sea;
But spins for every soul that's left alone,
To find the things that were supposed to be.
It leads the way through forests made of smoke,
Where childhood laughter echoes in the leaves;
And pulls aside the heavy, velvet cloak,
That every heart in secret silence weaves.
The sailor follows where the copper swings,
To find the city that he once forgot;
Where every bell of old ambition rings,
Within a garden that the years could not.
But as he reaches for the golden gate,
The needle breaks beneath the weight of fate.
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