When art is suppressed, there is only blue.
From the silent tears…there is only blue.
The artist inside does dare to write rhymes,
But pencils blunt; singers croon lonely blues.
Our books close shut, therefore, our mouths do, too.
No words, no tunes, and the face…slowly blue.
People push people, strip freedoms, ‘neath a
bland banner - no stars - just unholy blue.
Yet, Rocky, while above there’s fixed sky blue,
Below, we’re an ocean of boldly blue.