It is the crescent moon in the darkest night.
It is the electric bulb’s blinding light.
It is the blank page, awaiting a pen.
It is the shell of the egg of the hen.
For some, it is beauty and joy,
The flowing gown of a bride coy.
The cloth on the table of a lavish feast,
The cloth on the shoulder of the holy priest.
For some, it is emptiness,
A colour without hue or happiness.
The cloth that covers the respected dead,
And the flowers that are offered and spread.
But for all, it is the colour of truth,
The colour of the peaceful youth,
That is easily hidden by the black:
A small lie or a kingdom’s attack.
It is in the eyes of the fierce and brave,
In the hair of the serious and grave.
In the diamond of a beautiful ring,
In the feathers of an angel’s wing.
It is the colour that is light and pure,
The one that cannot offer any lure,
The one that makes hues lighter,
The one that makes the world brighter.