Yellow ... A colourless colour Separated from my mom's womb; Yellow was the colour When I was discharged. There is a different anotomy Of similar morphological species We all are (in)humans.
My mom and me, bleed yellow, It's not blood, not exactly. It's not red. Or I am colourblind Or maybe not.
It has got no specific nomenclature What is it when sulphur is synonym To blood? We live after we die And it's a curse, I mean life. We live in death, Death is another obedient child Of war. Like me, I was born in conflict.
I saw death of an old woman Beaten hard by her age. She bled, she died. Mom says she has got a better place A better life. She was yellow, or pale Or whatever you call it.
Life is lowest form of disorder Or it is disorder deficit. There's no stability Neither with me, nor my mom And maybe my country. A country with yellow barbed wires Like yellow Bougainville Or sunflowers, or any other flower. What matters, it's a valley of yellow flowers A living sign of jaundice.
Last evening, it was raining And last ablution of the lone sun. It is martyred now. I remember it's death, It cried joy and screamed acid. It was hit by some soldiers On the name of independence A conspiracy maybe. It's bandaged yellow moonface Scars all over its body, Stabbed in the courtyard Of a shrine of a high mountain, Zabarwan, with a fine chiseled tip Of a pine tree.
My mom don't say about it Where it went in conflict. But I am mature to interpret It is at better place, a yellow place. No flags will rule it by oppression On the name of three colours And a blue wheel Of a disfunctioned wheelchair. Yellow is a colour of a dead memory. I was born yellow ...