Finge Hic:

waking up one, dull day,

glancing at the walls, ornaments

coloured black, white, and gray.

you’ve never felt such vehemence,

rising to see, as well,

your body in pale mien;

you suppose, “Am I in hell?

what a colorless hell this is, then,”

you strip for a shower;

turning it on, you find,

the water flows asunder

In quite an austere manner;

you walk out of your bath

and in your greyscale towel

you lather yourself, step on a mat

of the same, grey debacle;

you open your closet

only to see that your clothes,

they haven’t any difference

but their voluminous modes.

you dare not wear to please,

for it mattered not anyway;

you take your drab car keys,

and head out to greet the yellow-less day;

leaves without the green;

bark without any wrinkle;

no trees even a little lean;

no daylight dew even twinkled.

you ought to go to the beach, for

you believe that’s art’s deposal:

“chanteurs chanter de la mer,

et peintres peignent la mer.”

as you drive, you hear the gulls,

and they squawk, however

it isn’t as melodious

as you thought you had heard before;

you reach the sea, and step out;

you trample on sand only to bring no ease,

but discomfort, and a frown to the mouth.

what kind of disease is this?

you glower in unexpected disgust;

you start your drab car with her drab keys,

and drive back home in wanderlust,

and you can’t help your abrupt tears:

you weep as you leave the tedium

and pace reflectively,

and go back in your home, so dim;

you wonder in melancholy:

“how could man subsist

in a world devoid of its beauty?

more so, how could a world exist

in a world devoid of its art?”