When I read the poem this verse stood out as a possible refrain for me:


But every tale of magic, that's been told throughout the years
repeats the same thing over with a message loud and clear:
Magic, it is the power that is born from Life's own force:
It flows just like a river bright and unites us at the core.

Also you said:
"...it separates the two "voices" in the
song into distinct halves, the first being the voice of the dominant "hard reality" culture, and the second, of the "magical,
fluid culture" (for want of a better term)"

This reminds me of a lovely old Australian poem - my absolute favourite poem in the world - by John Shaw Neilson (1872-1942).

http://www.middlemiss.org/lit/authors/neilsonjs/neilsonjs.html#poetry

THE ORANGE TREE by John Shaw Neilson

The young girl stood beside me. I
   Saw not what her young eyes could see:
- A light, she said, not of the sky
   Lives somewhere in the Orange Tree.

- Is it, I said, of east or west?
   The heartbeat of a luminous boy
Who with his faltering flute confessed
   Only the edges of his joy?

Was he, I said, borne to the blue
   In a mad escapade of Spring
Ere he could make a fond adieu
   To his love in the blossoming?

- Listen! the young girl said. There calls
   No voice, no music beats on me;
But it is almost sound: it falls
This evening on the Orange Tree.

- Does he, I said, so fear the Spring
   Ere the white sap too far can climb?
See in the full gold evening
   All happenings of the olden time?

Is he so goaded by the green?
   Does the compulsion of the dew
Make him unknowable but keen
   Asking with beauty of the blue?

- Listen! the young girl said. For all
   Your hapless talk you fail to see
There is a light, a step, a call
   This evening on the Orange Tree.

- Is it, 1 said, a waste of love
Imperishably old in pain,
Moving as an affrighted dove
Under the sunlight or the rain?

Is it a fluttering heart that gave
Too willingly and was reviled?
Is it the stammering at a grave,
The last word of a little child?

- Silence! the young girl said. Oh, why,
Why will you talk to weary me?
Plague me no longer now, for I
Am listening like the Orange Tree.