The magician waves his wand,
and through the azure haze of mum-
you see the sea (miraged) again.
He taps his banker’s top-hat to declare
that all is closed and fine
that sand is water, that coal is clean,
and that the tangerine of wild-fire is a shade of blue.
The magician waves his wand again
and tells you how the south is north,
that what’s grey is green,
that your deal is sealed
and you believe,
yes, and yes, you believe, believe because
of being petrified in lack
and wishing the oasis to quench
your burning thirst in drought.