The Measure of the Magic
The air is moist, the air is warm,
The sky whispers of coming storm.
Mirabel sits outside home,
Once again to fate bemoan.
…
Of her kindred, without magic.
A curse for her that's long been tragic.
In mountains, beholds the storm,
Its rain, like tears, flows forlorn.
…
Lightning crashes, thunder rolls,
Mirrors tumult of her soul.
Whispers the Encanto song,
But no miracle shall come along.
…
The rain passes and sun returns,
Its light against her skin does burn.
Now sitting under empty sky,
Rain passed, but even now she cries.
…
No magic within her song.
In her blood there's something wrong.
In this place, for Mirabel,
Lacking magic is a kind of hell.
…
But be as may, the sun is out,
And she cannot lie about.
Without magic works the land,
By her own two weathered hands.
…
Soon or late, kin shall return,
Do their best to not her spurn.
But within her knows that something's wrong,
For she cannot cast Encanto's song.