Wizards and witches are long gone,
The alchemists of old
Who turned the water into wine,
Base metals into gold.
But cryptic magic still lies furled
Tucked neatly in its place,
When found – the air from alien worlds
It breathes upon our face.
This magic is in crafted words,
With thought and feeling melded,
Sometimes as lyric as songbirds,
And puns not quite intended.
New essence words can still impart,
New light call into being
When voices that were once apart
Are finally agreeing.
Magic
© Copyright: Филипп Кубасов, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120041501487
Свидетельство о публикации №120041501487
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