The Magician

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.//

I guess you have to somewhat. Can you tell?