with all the fuss about rainbows
black rests on an armchair,
its hands touching the sky
and eyes on a crowded pavilion.
it smirks at astronomy books,
silently mocking the timeless wars
for its multifaceted kingdom.
(there's a leather shoe in my room,
my father wears it everyday
to his favorite place outside our home,
he loves its black
coz his father loved the same;
there's a hierarchy of darkness in my family
but we live more happily
than frontline faces in white.)
black is more a noun
than a descriptive tag for
bottomless solenoids in the sky;
it stands with a complete profile
unlike the concrete ground
under my feet,
that feeds on transparency
every morning I rise.
black is, for it reflects all
if not for black, what would you love colors for?