A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.

COLOURS

Simple then,
Simply colours,
Untouched by censure.
The colours of the heart.
We did not paint them there,
The green of envy,
The blood red rage.
'tis but a soul in refraction.
Simple then,
To feel those colours,
Untouched,
Undistilled,
And while reflecting
On the same,
Be fulfilled,
But give no name.
Untouched,
Unashamed.


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