The Limit of Vision

We all see our sights to the extent of the feeling which permeates our eyes.

Be it the sadness that drips to the ground,

Be it the love that blinds every fool,

Be it the sight of that treasured love, or the darkness of that white room without ceiling or walls,

Be it the simple, gentle and plain bias that grants us sense and reason, heart and will.

Be it what it is, we all se our skies and seas, our lands and our dreams

With colors, that someone dreams of,

With tones and shapes that someone, far far away, still awaits to percieve, someday, somewhere.

So whenever you feel anything at all,

Wherever in this wolrd,

Paint it, sing it, play it

Draw it from the scratch of the horizon you live for, of the horizon you live in,

In all the shades of that fading fragrance, even if it's already gone and long forgotten

Put it in a tall, long wall, so that everyone would be able to see it

So that the one who dreams of it, so deeply and hopeless, hopefully

Could whimsically touch it, as the scene of that unseen and longed for colour

Could brush past the long closed eyes of that one's heart.

So that I can see that colour again, so that I can paint it in my sky

So that it finally matches the violet moon that floats in this emptiness, with nothing but it's orange-red aureole that fades away, away from it's profile.

This emptiness that surrounds my shy clouds of a yellowish and cyan green,

That stands above my humble fields of light blue and indigo.

So that the sky without a color

Could shine on it's own accord, free from the nothingness that took its love away.