The Astronomers Eyes

I asked my professor, hair rusted and grey

Why did he believe in magic?

His astronomers eyes trained in science and math

Didn't even bulge when I asked it.

He told me: "My pupil you're naive in a way,

So ignorant to the beauty around you."

But how could a student who's studied and read

Believe in what's been proven untrue?

He told me he pitied me if I never found beauty

In moments like warm tea in bed.

Or maybe how light the sky gets when clouded

Before a snow storm instead

A babies first laugh, or autumn leaves,

Or a wolves love of the moon.

A Mozart symphony, good books,

Or an artist humming a tune.

Midnight train rides, and chilly lake days,

And stargazing on an empty road.

New love and old love, crying and laughter,

Bright smiles when stories are told.

He looked at me so deeply, his grey eyes full

Of wisdom that only galaxies hold.

He took a breath, so long and so shaky,

While spouting his knowledge untold.

You don't need to believe in Heaven and Hell

To know that magic exists.

Just note that there's such beauty in life

That belongs beyond this list.

For magic isn't just fairies and witches

But instead what this Earth holds.

Your bloods made of stardust, your heart from a Cauldron,

And your spirit will never grow old.