The colour's death

Sometimes, life seems to appear in black and white. It is like my eyes, a dark globe hung above a land of snow, just an unbelievable phenomenon, something from a physical theory nobody can understand.

Sometimes, life is but reality which can’t be explained.

It is.

And nothing more.

There is mist all around me. I feel alone, but strangely glad. The lights which transpire from the branches call me “little child” and I would like to be handsome in front of Night. Places are empty; the crow which used to stand on the pavement has left far away, and leaves the squares

quiet…

still quiet.

Colours don’t exist anymore, there is no white, or yellow, or blue. There is just a virginal land and the air which smells cold.

The little pieces of water dance upon a wind that has never existed. They stand on my hands, and can’t fall to the grass because they’re not heavy enough. I want to believe in that few seconds…

life could be a religion.

Far away, fireworks are bursting. Their explosions are the single link with the life from outside. My songs have vanished in a deep shadow; my lips are kissed by the smoothest caress. The wind of November which follows my shape.

This night is a tale never told.

Some people have written it, some dreamers have read it although their thoughts are still laid on their bed of wisdom. Youth has never existed as much as in the colours’ death.
I have understood the lights, and while night will pass away, I will be a child holding stars,

hung in the night,

...but laid on that soft cold grass.

Birmingham, the 4th of November.

2007