It’s the magic of its own world

It’s surrounded by itself
It’s made by itself
It’s the formation of its own form
It’s the magic of its own world

It’s the boat and the water itself
It’s the stars and the space itself
It’s the love and the lover itself
It’s everywhere, where can you not get it

It’s consisted in the Buddha’s eyes
It’s consisted in the murderer’s voice

You cannot define it in its any form
It’s free within any object of any form

Where is it not then?
Where is it then?
Nobody can claim for it
Nobody can deny for it

It’s nothing but makes everything
It’s everything but becomes nothing

It’s what it is about
It’s about what it is ……

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