The Blue
The anil palate, fauces of the sky.
Oh, deep blue ink on the supernal tongue!
I see the cloud soundlessly die,
I mean, the word of cloud dies among
the blueness of a phrase of a nice day.
The blue Chrysostom tongue is able of
expressing everything: the white, the gray
intricacy of colors, the standoff
between the Earth I'm standing on and you
who's speaking from the heaven. You pretend
you don't exist. That's why a very few
of us can see, discern and understand.
The understanding is that me and you
misunderstand the meaning of the bleu.
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