Rainbow
At first,
the world was black and white.
If it was uncomfortable, we cried.
If it was fine, we stopped.
That was all.
As memories slowly piled up,
the world became a rainbow.
Joy, anger, disappointment, happiness—
colors
trespass across
each other’s borders
and tremble.
The rainbow in a preserved painting
is too smooth,
too polished—
so bright
that one instinctively looks away.
When I gathered the courage
to face the light within me,
I saw
the rainbow had never been
seven colors.
Before a whirlpool
that cannot be defined,
I lay down
the arrogance
that once dared
to choose words for it.
The moment I admit
that it cannot be carried into language,
only then
do I become intoxicated
with a strange calm
inside this relentless rainbow.
And only then,
after facing
the rainbow of my own emotions,
do I finally confront
my arrogant past—
when I drew your rainbow
in only seven colors,
as I pleased.
