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