Spring came, and with it came the verdant hope of a child's eyes. The green was spattered with sparkling tears, and in their depth shimmered waves of caring. He tried to tell them about white and red, and the rose of tainted innocence. The green-eyed child wouldn't understand.
Therefore came summer, running recklessly like a young boy who, keeping his eyes on the winged sky, falls harshly on the ground. The year-long summer was dressed in many colours, a full scale rainbow : blue and pink, red and green, yellow and black; and in vinyl, in polyester and satin and many other fabrics as an impish sprite would dress it and comment on the appeal of colours. Summer ended up with a virginal cloth dyed by crimson drops nonetheless. That was as it was fit to be.
By autumn, everything was grey. Like mist weighting on the November morning, like ash-tainted fingers warped around precious vain cigarettes, like eyes too wearied to cry anymore. And wasn't it ironic, then, that this colourless twilight happened on a rainbow ? Still, the last thing he saw in dimming half-light was stark and bright, his own blood on a pale coat and dark lashes bleeding away. Red and white and black - like love, innocence and death.
