Where are the colors of time,
Do they hide in the opaque islands,
Floating in our white crowded sky?
Can we dare imagine,
To believe that they are real?

Why not, if upon the sun’s last kiss
Over the uneven horizon,
A Kaleidoscope spun my eyes
Into the dark folds of night,
And I gazed upon sorcery
When the moon appeared full.

Yet near the edge of a healing pool,
A disturbance echoes from the past,
Its shadowy sins ripple within,
Tears stream guilt along my face,
A distortion stretches into betrayal.

My heart seeks an acquaintance
With an aura of human perfume;
Shouldn’t I be able to see, and hear,
The ghosts of forefathers in tune,
Pardoning us, our need to hide?

Alas, there is no emancipation
From the penance of our sad whims;
We run this race with blinders
Until the colors run out of time,
Wherever they are inclined to be.