The East Mediterranean Triangle at Crossroads

In The Dim Days Of Very Long Ago There Was A Country Called Fensalir. It Was A Low-lying Country Of Rich Green Meadows And Fair Cornfields. Beside The Slow-flowing Streams Trees Drooped Their Branches Laden With Wondrous Fruit. Upon The Endless Meadows Countless Herds Of Cattle Browsed. It Was A Rich And Peaceful Land, But No Man Knew Where It Began Or Where It Ended, For Round The Fair Green Meadows There Hung Ever A Soft White Mist, And Any Who Strayed Far Were Lost In Its Rolling Folds. Weary Of The Quiet Peace, Stung By The Longing To Adventure And To Know, Some Indeed Wandered Forth, Never To Return.