I have a wand now;
I have it for my service,
For my silence,
For my skill at emptiness.

I wave my wand as he did, and I await!
I wave my wand as he did,
And yet the magic doesn’t come
As I was told it would.

My wand was his once,
His that he made magic with.
The magic that he made before he passed that is,
The magic that I should have now for my service.

Oh how I wished that magic were mine;
So much that I served to get it when he passed.
And though I wave it as he did, the magic doesn’t come,
Forever and a day the magic doesn’t come.

And so I sit, or stand, or stray a little here and there;
But never to leave, or go to my peace – and wave my wand
That I so dearly craved though the magic never comes
As I was told it would, and dwell forever upon my deed.