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Description
The lines of the surface were not the sea.
And the bright dots were not the stars.
But the streak of black across your face,
so deftly in one stroke, was the night.
You smiled, you frowned.
There was red on you breast, a guilt,
most likely from times past,
created a palette of colors on canvas
so pure, yet not white, yet not black.
And not grey either, it was a color never seen.

You pick the black roses from the field,
lonely yet happily, because it's your idea.
Skipping the woven brown basket
the flowers collected ended in your shirt,
used as a mean to carry tears.
But still you stayed quiet. Quiet.
There was a million voices in your mind
While conversations between those doubled.
Run now, through the fields in the grass,
far away, run, and don't come back until spring.

Description
The lines of the surface were not the sea.
And the bright dots were not the stars.
But the streak of black across your face,
so deftly in one stroke, was the night.
You smiled, you frowned.
There was red on you breast, a guilt,
most likely from times past,
created a palette of colors on canvas
so pure, yet not white, yet not black.
And not grey either, it was a color never seen.

You pick the black roses from the field,
lonely yet happily, because it's your idea.
Skipping the woven brown basket
the flowers collected ended in your shirt,
used as a mean to carry tears.
But still you stayed quiet. Quiet.
There was a million voices in your mind
While conversations between those doubled.
Run now, through the fields in the grass,
far away, run, and don't come back until spring.