The land is enchanted, if you know where to look,
From a royal sunset to a glassy brook,
The magic is there for all to see,
In the ethereal mist and the silver oak tree.
Far away, a distant man in elegant clothes,
Wanders among the many roads,
With flute and pen ready at hand,
He attempts to unlock the treasures of the land.
He pauses now and lifts his flute to play,
Trying to keep his sorrow at bay,
Feelings for her, unrequited and alone,
They search for affinity but remain unknown.
For he has found, or so he believes,
The greatest magic, and so he grieves.
For this magic does not yet belong to him,
This magic is as unpredictable as the North Wind's whim.
And thus he wanders, but less than whole,
Spirit flickering like a fire's last, dying coal,
A piece of him taken as the toll of love,
As beautiful, but as fleeting, as a snowy dove.
Yes, the land is enchanted, if you know where to look,
But the greatest of experiences can't be found in a book,
Search for them yourself, discover them anew,
But make sure you understand what it is you pursue.