It's black or white and
never grey -
that's what they say.
Society beaten
black and blue
with and old white shoe.
And who knew
what to do
when the sky turned
pink -
what to think?
A white hot canvas
ruined by ink.
I know the clouds
are sometimes grey -
I've watched them play.
The sun would heat them
yellow and gold
without being told.
And who hoped
that someday
those shadows might
burn -
when will we learn?
To stand in line
and wait our turn?
28.06.2010
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem