The orange is orange because God was orange when He made the orange orange
because I felt orange looking at the orange peel of the orange come off
because my hands become orange with the orange juice of the orange
staining them
And my tongue got entangled in orange taste
the world was orange and young
too orange to be born, to bloom or to perish
and the Painter painted happiness in shades of orange
casting the orange spell over the squalid nature of progress
because orange paint flows through his veins
and mine
The reason why his wrists are covered with orange bandages –
a desire that never did come orange-true
and mine
Breaking his back to make an orange-like heaven
and my name
when I wasn’t there, if I had a better view
neither was the heaven
only the orange road was walking on me
alone.
And he wished for an orange-shaped orange world
to make it his own
not mine.
And taste it.
Then, it dawned on me:
I hate bright colours.