Восьмий колір

The words spill out like watercolours on water – bright, translucent, boldly sincere. They have something of a child's delight, when a rainbow seems like a personal sign from the heavens. And at the same time, they have an adult's willingness to pay with their life for the right to touch a dream.

Metaphors follow one after another: water, strings, sunbeams, kisses from the sky. It all sounds as if the world has suddenly turned into a palette, and the feeling itself into that very eighth colour that was always missing to complete the picture.

There is a slight madness in this, but it is the brightest possible. When it seems that clouds can be driven away, light can be held in your palms, and the sky can be kissed without encountering any obstacles. And all this endless poetry boils down to a simple, almost whispered word: ‘allow.’