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,
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.




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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