our books taught too much of it
until we inhaled its black outline
and let them sink in our young minds
until we get old

we believed it was made
out of high mountains
crisp white snow, where there
it was never too hot or too cold
where there, nothing is too dark
or too bright

magic in our young eyes has no paradox
only paradise, where we dwell
and hoped to dwell

until we got old
where the back of our old eyes
smelled the reek of our magic
where the light could get too dark
and the weather could get too cold

but still i found sunlight and warmth
in your eyes
then our old minds realized
that this is real magic