Poem about our own magic
We’re all tragic, since we haven’t figured out our own magic.
It’s not the broom of the stick made out of wood, it’s a very simple thing we should have understood.
No horn, as the unicorn, at our forehead.
No spell by a wizard said.
Not even a mermaid in the sea, with slivering fins, showing herself after you smoked weed.
It’s not a dragon spreading fire in the sky and it’s not about taking a shortcut by being high.
Blood in your veins filled with alcohol will not bring you closer to the eternal cosmopol.
No, it’s a simple thing to always be happy and fly above everything with magic wings.
It’s called compassion my dear, an eternal love that will remove all the fears.
To love everything and always was said to be the ultimate truth even in the old days.