The magician writes his spells on the walls
so they won't vanish from his brains
He is neither young nor old, but
he's seen a lot of the sunshine and dawn
behind the seas and behind the clouds.
He talks in tongues and decodes the wind.
And every single step we make means something
to him. He's someone's ghost, everyone's ghost,
the shade of forgotten lovers
and the secrets of every fall.
He has no land. All lands belong to him,
all cities are his. But he has no home.
And trees move when he goes by,
but they simply can't tell where he goes.
He can name your moons but you'll never see
his moons. They are saved in roses
at the end of the road.
He has a number for every building,
every skin and every bird in our thoughts.
He simply knows all lovers and he blesses them
if they are true to each other,
white and earthly at the same time.
He's neither good, nor evil,
but he will leave a number at your feet
and you will always wonder
what it means.
But you will be pleased trying
to figure it out.
Give it a try,
he will whisper
Give it a try.//
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