Born a monarch with no crown
Here I am to reclaim my rights
Watch me command the thousand-head-crowd

In the glare of bright lights
A throne for hundred sages
It works it's magic on the hungry ones

Time freezes on the voice command
Of the next magus entering the stage
Slaves of Illusion

Playing the game of awe
Slaves to mirrors
Trapped in the purgatory of ego


Slaves!
Ready to enlive his own decease

To fill the audience pit
Bleeding real drops, swallowing sweat
And working every wrinkle crease

Artisan among masters
Unable to shrug his costume off
Grown into his mask with flesh

The spectator of his own act
Illusion arcana apprentice
Hunched behind the set

He vanishes into lethargic oblivion
Till the next curtain-up call
As magus major

Entrapped in servant's role
Performing his mute swansong
To the careless crowd

I'm enliving the ravish of soul
Each time I enter the stage
Trading the new mould

Shaped of sweat and sleepless nights