Hanging in the mob-rule,
No-pause-for-breath, air
The ancient magic,
Mixed with the new,
Is still clearly there.
Old conjurer may be gone –
No option, sometimes,
But to move on –
They say someone
Else has his keys,
Is picking chord locks,
Putting messages into rocks:
The love goes on;
The song the same,
But not.
There never was new magic, it always stays the same.
This poem carries its own magic.