Works of fiction should be as cold as stone;

There’s no point what’s invented being warm.

Created stories must be read alone

(Imagination’s better on one’s own)

And fantasies should take a cooled-down form.

 

It’s facts which generate those sultry days;

At least they have the merit to exist.

Pursuing, like the Earth, their melting ways,

Not blinking when they’re singed by high noon’s rays.

Only in the night do their hot flames desist.