A boulevard where vagabonds swim Is lined with Thracian women weeping Swaying gently in the wind With portraits of headless young men Suspended on String, they are In pursuit of tenebrous dreams Whose shadow soft illusion lights Yet the colour of black eludes Amidst the debris of this magic and mystic charm Forging hidden truths leaving light and darkness In appeal to unreasoned thought that splinter sound Leaving only tarnished echo floating effortlessly in tragic space Notions negotiate and migrate in terrible turmoil Not able to understand chaos corrodes Human rust that eats the soul With gnawing knowledge of emptiness Creates a vacuum in the heart That leaves cold the heat of happiness Proclaiming despair its God Points an accusing finger and brands us unclean Impure, none persons, where is the colour of black