Everyday. All I see everyday.

Is the one shade, of solemn grey.

Sometimes I spot blacks and whites,

But it’s all the same, like flying kites.

Up up up, in the air they go

Then they come down, if the wind doesn’t blow

The only thing that’s hopeful in this displacement

Is the color, orange.

Orange. I was eight when I saw it in sight.

It looked like a warm breeze, in the summer night

It was faint, ...