Oscillating through my spectrum,
what, if ramblers get tired?
I’m a player, I’ll play my thrum,
and not, what all has been desired.
Not, for what, I’ll be admired.
The monotonous silences make me up,
and that, my dark phases won’t ever lose,
I’m aware that no eighth color will come up,
nor to change, the seven will ever choose.
To get fathomed under feet, they’ll all refuse.
To walk with whom, only the people change,
such are my colors; those, my lands.
Made of all what makes it strange,
Whose all new tinges are built on sands,
left unwillingly, by the one who stands.