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.