The Shadow of Chromatism

Not the darkness cast
by walls or slender figures,
but the gloom intrinsic to red,
its barely stirred lament.
A quiet root within blue,
an extinguished echo you will never see,
the dense dark that dwells in yellow,
before the sun rises or dies.

È lì che ogni tinta si rannicchia,
sotto la veste che la luce scivola.
A secret soul, an occult vibration,
a story never told, never sculpted.
No object can generate it,
it is the veil that every color knows to hide.
An intimate abyss, a silent altar.