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There is a magic in us,
an old, deep magic,
that makes the crooked straight,
and even the warped ones even—
but which also bewitches us
with the dark and glorious flower
of our eternal wickedness,
reminding us of the wild child
who lives never too far beneath
the surface of things.
Do not keep running away from that child:
see him in the smile of lovers,
feel him in the touch of hands,
caress her in the softness
of skin against skin;
hear her in a laugh
that refuses to be silenced,
and behave, and go along—
behold him in the wild one
who will not play the good boy all the time.
Regard deeply this magic inside your soul,
whose flower is ecstasy;
let it grow as a flower deep inside of you,
let it sing in your voice, pulse in your words,
let it stir up strange and creative thoughts
in your mind;
let it even dance anew
the body that this body of yours can be.
Do not run from the magic.
It was there, years ago, deep within you
when the child dreamed of greatness;
when spark met spark and cause
friends’ hearts to beat as one;
when the seed of generations
sired those magnificent shooting stars.
Do not run from the magic:
call the child back home;
find anew those friends who love you;
sew more glorious seeds of life
to sire the great star you still will be.
jbs
5/11/99 - 3/30/03
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