“Orange dies out in the ascending fire,” roared our
grayish remainder; “Gold is a dream of lead,” said
Roy G. Biv.
When gold can be alloyed to form a working metal,
then the Order of Ages will be changed.
“But only when it is as common as copper,” retorted the
stupid jewel of the floor; “Only when it is as dull as
lead,” said Roy G. Biv.
“Gold is gold,” say the sages.
“Lead is lead,” say the thieves.
“What’s lead is gold and what’s gold is lead,” says
Roy G. Biv.
All the colors are fractions of white. All the colors
burn up in the unseen higher vibrations of glory.
“But when I muddied them all in a sty of pigments,
when I put them all in the dish and mixed and mixed,
all I got was the leaden tone of earth,” said
Roy G. Biv.
The gleaming of their ruined gold outlasts the kingdoms.
“But the mud and the rock around it will prevail,’
insists the lustreless plumber; “Hurrah for the dull,”
says Roy G. Biv.
After the gold, the dross; after the juice, the cracked
shell; after the emptying, the hollow.
“Ah, yes,” sighed Rex Cloacarum; “That’s me, said
Roy G. Biv.
The painter said: “If one were to imagine a bluish
orange, it would have to feel like a southwesterly
north wind.” “No, that would be a reddish green,”
said the other painter. “It is all the same to me,”
said Roy G. Biv.
Blessed art thou who bringest forth fruit of the bronze: bells
and pomegranates, thunder and lightning. Blessed art thou
who brought forth nought of the lead, save Roy G. Biv.
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