Not in wands or whispered spells,
Nor towers where a wizard dwells.
Not in potions, cloaks, or charms—
But in quiet things with open arms.

The moon that pulls the restless tide,
A seed that splits the earth with pride.
The stars that died to make our skin,
The dreams we fight and hold within.

I love to believe in magic,
Not the kind from books—
But the one that lives in dreams,
In the beauty of a soul that looks.

Every single thing has its own shine—
Even a water droplet, catching light like a star.
The stars themselves, so distant and rare,
Speak to us of what we truly are.

The plants—they whisper secrets green,
So simple, soft, and yet serene.
Humans, too—so wild and deep,
A thousand layers they try to keep.

Our world is just like fantasy,
It seems too perfect to be real.
How rare the things we feel inside—
The love, the ache, the truths we seal.

The warmth we feel from someone’s glance,
The ache of love, the pull of chance.
The breath of truth in honest voice,
The strength to fall—and still have choice.

There is no magic like you see in shows,
But still—this world in secret glows.
Not fantasy, but something true:
The real magic lives inside of you.

In faith, in hope, in sacred light,
In walking through the darkest night.
You carry skies behind your eyes—
And paint your soul across the skies.

And if you ever doubt your way,
Just listen when the silence stays—
It has a voice, and so do you.
A whisper soft, a dream made true.