This poem is about how a colour has selflessly devoted itself in healing the world from one of its darkest phases. It never thinks about recognition, neither does it want to grab the limelight upon itself, bragging how it moulded the world. The colour is never seen as the livery of the heroes, it never is an establishment, and it definitely isn’t one of your lively neighbourhood lads with whom you can talk your heart out. It is the hidden star that will stay close to you and shine the brightest when the others go out. It is the personification of all those souls who failed to speak up but yet cared for you the most. It is the voice of the voiceless. It is the rebellion against all those injustices of the world. It is you.
It’s not a colour, an emotion
That keeps longing the distances
That keeps blurring the lines
That makes you sing the murkiest elegies.
It’s not a colour, a panacea
That keeps on shrouding your wounds
That keeps on healing you
That soothes your endless frayed nerves.
It’s not a colour, a way of life.
That pervades equality after death
That metes out justice to the gone
That takes the entire world’s blame on itself
Black isn’t a colour, an emotion.