Classic Poem

I lose all sense of profiles,
Strolling through your greys, blacks, browns, and dull greens!
No man bestows his orange robe
Soberly upon your uncoloured pavements,
Rebuking life for imitating death.
No woman taunts her sorrows
With full, persistently gaudy pride.
When you take to colours, you are ashamed,
Like pages nibbling at a pilfered tart.
You go back quickly to your surface coldness.
And since you have no sharp, abundant colours
On your clothes, you walk
In straight and measured lilts
As befits the serious blind.
Pistols, perfumed rhapsodies over foul odors,
Drugged and swindled the lustre of my time.
Yet, we had a virtue.
We lavished colours on our backs
And ravished our sorrow with brightness
That often gave a lightness to our feet!