Primitive myths paint
death as black,
life white.
Between life and death,
we spend our days.
Not as zebras, nor rainbows,
norshades of gray.
But as beings far finer
than light alone.
As invisible to angels
as they are to us.
Colorless,
even to God.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
See my previous comment about 'Impeccable Eyes' regarding the surefire signs of hallucinogenic drug use...