The Magic Machine Poem by Rayan Ali

Before the beginning of every beginning,
Out of chaotic pieces of clay,
An orderly lump was created, the Wanderer, for ages to come,
Into which a clot of blood was poured,
A soul was breathed in,
A beating chamber put into it.
And finally to uplift the veil of this Reality,
It was then bestowed with the gift of Consciousness,
Resting in a fathomable pit, the Mind.
To seize the immense truth of his mortality,
It was given the ultimate power of Thought,
Thought astray has he long gone from his destined path.
Like a large cauldron, dark and deep
Is the fathomableness of his Mind.
To life it comes when the power of Thought
Works its way across what may appear as unfeasible,
Thus this power shunning its light there, making it promising;
Just in the likeness of some magical potion,
That leaves its effect on every dull and dark reality.
Like the true nature of magic mistaken,
By what appears visible only to the eye,
So is the true power of the Wanderer’s magic, the Mind
Mistaken for nothing but a mere conception of immortality.
Thought its seeds do grow, reap fruits and then erode away
By the cruel hands of Time, which crushes yet everything.
Like magical potions jingling in the dark and deep cauldron,
The Thoughts jungle in their fathomable cauldron, the Mind.
Like the potions assemble together, becoming the soul of spells,
The power of Thought assembles itself, becoming the soul of intelligence.
And just as the magician’s wand always at work on its spells,
So is the Wanderer’s Magic Machine, the Mind,
Always at work on its Thoughts.