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Kunama 1977


Blue gets up with the morning bright; shrouds us with his Blue light. It keeps in touch with the worlds around which it evolves, revolves.

Blue is the final halo of the setting sun, fleeing before an advancing night.

Blue shines out thought. If you give it achance; if you let it free, with its friends, red and yellow, almost anything can be done.

Blue is the warm translucent sky of a summer day or the cold of the frosty, foggy, winter morning, fresh from its deep recovery.

Blue is my mind’s eye’s stage and seting for dreams and creation; that only I can see.

Blue can be cold, fierce and encompassing, like the turbulent darkness of storm clouds packed up in a mass, or the terror of the sea when it is mad with the world, its master, the tosses and turns and boils and bubbles.

Blue is the deep calm of an endless lake set in th deep blue haze of mountains baking in the mid-summer’s sun.

Blue is the beauty of light through a diamond or being inside water looking out.

... But Blue, he’s a different bloke. He sits in the dark, sad and forgotten, thinking of things that he could have been... but aren’t. He is sadness, hand in hand with alone. They are a pair that go well together, like love turned sour or the loss of a friend. But...

Blue is the vivid thunder of storms; though more than that.

Blue is the smoke hanging in the lifeless air, spiced with the smells of snags cooking in the valley; where people sit and dream or talk around their security warmth of fire, sipping coffee from their battered mugs, in time to the spitting frypan.

Blue is the earth seen through the skylight of the moon and the stars beyond. But most of all, Blue is the memory of happiness nad hope.

Blue is the joyful sadness expressed in a song, and Blue is the future loves. Yet Blue plods on ever caring, ever going day after day. Affecting, effecting the world.

“Blue, when will you stop?”

“Never”, he cries, “never”.



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