Very well children,
I will read you a bedtime story.
And with that I picked up the book
of colourless and genderless fairytales.
White.
Everything is white.
The picture on the wall,
the room in his mind.
Only his life
seems to be black,
white and grey.
Like a wounded animal
they shut themselves,
He him,
out.
Lock out from what?
Is there at all
something
worth
to prevent being excluded.
He shouts
at the empty
whiteness.
White,
He whispers to his love.
Regretttably,
he fears,
she too can only think grey.
The lecherous greyness
of the masses,
o how he detests it,
he calls
silently
at his gray love.
His naked love says:
you're mad, my archangel,
what do you mean by white?
Well,
what does he mean
by white.
White,
he wispers,
white is white
and
white is as a blank page,
virginal white for the eye
but
already tarnished
or
stained with grey.
I'm looking
for the true
primordial white.
The white
that stands for
innocense and liberty,
where I can
let the idle defenseless children
of my imagination roam smoothly.
White is not a colour,
he concludes deeply.
Without any trouble
or remorse
he just shut out
his grey naked love.
Black
he is now,
black
to preserve
the white.
To prevent
that the grey
of his love
affects
his precious white.
White,
they whisper
smiling at each other.
Her smile
that of incomprehension
but full of love
that accepts his insanity.
His smile
that of betrayal
and loneliness.
Quietly they huddle
against each other.
Just before
his naked love
falls asleep
he hears her
breathe:
tomorrow, tomorrow
I will try
to be white for you.
And he realizes,
in a wave of clarity
through his own gray
delusional world,
that his only love
is already white.
And so
my children
ends this fairytale.
maybe next time I will
read you a story on grey
and later or before on black.
For now
I wish you
a quiet night
full of love
and of sleep.
© Oct. 1985 - Aug. 2020
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