You read a book of paper and ink,
and in your chest the doors of magic open.
Ink is nothing but a fragile veil
behind which a black magician… waits.
A magician unseen,
dwelling between two dots,
drawing in darkness a sun
only the brave of heart can see.
You turn the page,
and hear the whisper of shadows,
as if the words were ancient spells
awakening a thousand possibilities in the mind.
From where does this power come?
Where was this hidden flame stored?
In the paper, or in the ink?
Or in the hand of the black magician
who changes the world
leaving nothing behind but a shiver?
He wears no cloak,
carries no wand,
yet when he writes,
reality falls from its place.
We think we are reading,
but it is he who reads us,
turning our secrets page by page,
writing our names
in the margins of the tale.
And when you close the book,
you think you have escaped,
but the black magician
has hidden in your chest
a new chapter…
that will never end.
