The Man With a Passport to Nowhere

He stepped from the silver bird in summer’s heat,

a polished figure in a pressed gray suit,

his tongue a lantern of many nations,

his eyes steady as clockwork steel.

Yet his book of passage—ink and seal,

a country no atlas dared recall—

sang of Taured, proud and lost,

wedged between mountains and disbelief.

Guards watched him fade in guarded rooms,

no lock, no chain could hold his breath.

By dawn, only silence lingered—

a chair still warm, a shadow still waiting.

Fraud, they said;

a trickster caught by paper lies.

But legend prefers the darker hymn:

a traveler slipping through the seams,

bearing a passport the world forgot.