Two owls on my lamp, watching me in the night, in the light of orange that seems, to me, grey.
The eyes that watch me, I think, are black with white spots.
But when the light of orange turns grey, the eyes disappear, and reappear, again and again.
Never a blink, and never do they turn away from me.
It is dark and cold, and the moon refuses to shine.
The streets are empty and dark, for the orange street lights seem grey to me.
It has been grey for seven nights.
I have been grey for seven nights.
Waiting for the moon every night, I decide to not look at the sun.
For the sun is bright, brighter than the moon.
Bright yellow it is, a shade lighter than orange;
I fear it may turn darker, darker into grey, into a black that will contain me.
So I decide to stay inside, in the four walls, and a short passage.
I do not particularly like watching the walls, so I just look around.
My eyes fall on the eyes, of the two owls on my lamp, with their black eyes with white spots.
And I see them in grey, disappearing and reappearing, again and again.