White is the snow on the mountain tops but the rainbow is not. Grey is the cloudy horizon but rainbow is not. Black is the approaching night but the rainbow is not. What colour is the rainbow? It is red, like poppies among the grass and apples on the trees and cherry lips to kiss. It is orange because there are autumns leaves and carrots and tangerines and the setting sun. It is yellow for the full day sun, the sun smiling down of buttercups and lemons, the sun reflected on sunflowers, which adore it. It is green from meadows, from a cat's eyes, from peas, cucumbers and emeralds. Then it is also blue. When you say blue you think of the sky and the sea but between the sky and the sea there is a bridge and that bridge is the rainbow and the rainbow is red, orange, yellow, green and blue. Then it is purple, deep mysterious purple, as if it were made of clerical velvet and violets and ripe summer plums dripping from your eager mouth. But you say it is indigo too, so I ask you: “What is indigo?” No, do not mention your jeans, they were tinted that way. Tell me, can you see indigo in that silky snip of light stretched from the earthly heavy spirit to the heavens subtle joy? You cannot, cannot you? Indigo is not there, indigo was never there, indigo went away and hid where dreams go when nobody dare
not dream any more. If you find it, then you are free.