Behind the sharp line
Of the red horizon
There lies a city, and it is called Real.

People of Real
Only show their faces
While picking flowers
And walking through brains.

Children of Real
Learn very early
About the black cloud that lingers
Above their horizon.

And they are warned
Not to dream about it
Or to touch it, ever,
For it is not Real.

The cloud they call Liar
For there live the liars –
It is a dusty place
Where dark crowds reside.

And if one day a child
Crosses the horizon –
People of Real
And people of Liar
Will change their opinion.