A red circle,
it is not the same as a black circle.
Sometimes I have confusions with the colors.
I also confuse circles with mazes.
And labyrinths with abysses sheltered in mirrors.
Red resembles rage to me.
Black to death.
Some play with red.
Others flee to the black.
Sometimes they idolize both of them.
The shadows are black.
They walk near the red of roses.
There are no black roses.
The sun is red, vital, necessary.
Sometimes the sky is black.
Like omens that come from afar.
Inside a circle many things fit.
It depends on the hands.
Of consciences.
Blood is red.
When it dries, it is black.
Like fear.
The fear is black.
There are mouths that wave red or black words.
It depends on the ears that listen.
There are people locked in circles
with fabulous walls.
Other people outside the circles
They try to enter to sit at the same table.
There are people who build peace.
There are altruistic people.
There are people who do not know about circles,
nor of labyrinths,
nor of armed lies in secret circles.
There are also inconsequential people.