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To every door is a caller to dune.The man at Amawil Market says he knowsThe fastest pathway to Europe's back door.Yet there is no pathway without rate-limiting steps.No one says to him, the tales of the perished,The peril that awaits people at Sabha; surelyTraveling is a hue of anguish, no oneWould tell you that, you and your ears.Sun-drying under the open ambience of the desert,The woman at the door of the town says,