Time changes colours: A poem 

Day and night, this celestial song 

as if the stars were an orchestra playing 

even when the curtains went down 

And I hear the sound…touch the sound 

that not only reverberates, but also becomes solid 

leaving little pebbles at my door 

that I constantly try to decipher and know 

feeling their wounds, reliving the pain 

And my veins are shouting, nerves are screaming 

what even generations of troubadours left unlyricised 

the history that lies in the darkness of the universe’s memory 

whether it be Mont Segur or Masada 

whether it be Catharii or Sicarii 

as if my pain, in its infinity, is only temporary 

For heroes don’t die with the burning at the stake 

So I pose no questions to Ouroboros 

Even though this pain rips me apart; for I know 

that time, like a chameleon, 

lives to change its colours every now and then