The daltonist monk

Anger, stubborness, jealosy,
All mixing together in a pot ready to boil with tears…
The song of a love not received,
because it was not given,
not given because it was not found,
not found because it was always somewhere else.

A song without any stanzas…
just a choir,
made up of one verse,
a concert sung in front of an audience,
never the right one,
repeated over and over again,
and still …
followed by strong joyful claps at the end.
They sound in my head like the ripples of an autumn rain:
always the same,
too small,
colorless,
falling down in a phantom city,
in vain.

Pour any liquid into the container,
the car is not going to run unless it has some gas.

 

Why?

 

Are my eyes closed?
Or maybe open,
and I cannot see beauty because of my daltonism…

Somebody teach me other colors!
I’m tired of the black and white,
and shades of gray.

A question with no echo…
no answer…

I get it!
I just need to leave the why behind!
Empty the boiling pot and fill it with joy,
turn the tears for myself into tears for others,
live like a monk,
always a blessing.
And maybe, maybe, one day,
an enlightened saint comes to me saying:
Go in peace,
you are free of your covenant!
Come in peace!
and she blesses me with her smile,
and I grow hair again on my scalp,
run across the streets like a madman,
telling everybody the good news:
I can see!
I can see!
I can tell red from green,
Her green eyes and her red lips,
I can see colors again,
In spite … of my daltonism.

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