Red, Blue, and Green,
the ancient sibyls of nature,
emerge with their most beautiful shades,
weaving the mysteriously vibrant rainbow.
Ready to run its marathon across the sky,
it showcases a heavenly arc,
with the precision of a compass,
considering the world as its canvas,
awaiting its geometry.

Sometimes, I think:
How beautiful it is
that the rainbow exists as something
that can overshadow all creations
of worldly incantations throughout history.
How beautiful it is
that Green, Orange, Indigo,
and all those shades exist in harmony,
never poisoning the periphery of one another.

The rainbow, amidst nature’s destruction,
stands as its truest fugitive—
always in disguise,
yet never a ghost,
but the very soul of nature itself.

How soothing it is,
amidst the planet’s asphyxiation;
how, despite being thin,
it cannot be pierced by the prima facie of nature’s ruin,
the devastation of the so-called twenty-first century.
Pollution, categorized and defined,
weakens in effect,
allowing the rainbow to remain pure and untouched.

How amazing it feels,
as if the rainbow's frequent visits on Earth
have witnessed the time of ‘La Belle Époque,’
before the chaos of World War I, took hold.
Perhaps it saw the Mona Lisa,
as a Florentine,
or even her marriage to the silk merchant,
Francesco del Giocondo.

How beautiful it is to realize
that this union of seven colors
is more than just a word—it’s a bequest,
an earthly-crypto legacy.
The rainbow’s excellence represents
endless possibilities—
whether subdued or grand.

It is more than a mere arc of color.
It thrives in the ambitions of a magnate,
the resilience of megaliths,
and in the metaphors that writers build.

.    .    .