Going grey in exile

by Mark Hill

In memory of Federico Garcia Lorca who, on the night of his execution, looked up at the sky and was happy to see no moon

After many years in exile
I met a friend, we used to be close
A long time and a massive distance apart couldn’t kill our friendship
I could feel the same warmth and love
It had just become like an old bottle of wine
My friend’s hair wasn’t black any more
His hair, like the dust that covers the bottle, was grey
I have never liked grey
Grey reminds me of exile
Grey is like a lonely day in autumn
Grey represents the journey between dream and logic
Heat and cold, life and death
Grey is like my fate, to be far away and a stranger
Grey is like the dirty minds of monsters and witches, ridiculing life and hope
I wish at least my friend’s hair was white
The same white as when a wave kisses a beach
No, I have never liked grey

On one stormy night when we were lost in our past memories
A light gave us this message: wait, wait
Wait for white
The same white that is like the heart of an angel
Wait, wait
Wait for white lilies on your grave


Grey is like my fate, to be far away and a stranger
No, I have never liked grey
Maybe I should talk more about red
Yes red, the impact of the lash on raw skin, or blue like an empty sky
An empty sky that impatiently waits to be looked at by her beautiful eyes
But grey reminds me of the time that I have been away from her
Grey reminds me of the ashes of fires from bombs and bullets
I wish the world was more colourful
Colourful like our friendship, colourful like love
Grey is hopelessness
Grey is the death of love
In prison I never got used to the grey walls of my cell
I have never forgotten the grey voices of prisoners and their pain
No, I have never liked grey


On one moonlit night
Moonlight had drawn a shiny silver road on the surface of an ocean
The silver road was going to the end of the ocean, to the horizon
It was on that road and on that horizon that I saw her
An angel with a basket of flowers
I knew that kissing an angel on that horizon was a perilous thrill
But the temptation was so great, like one moonstruck
I began to walk on the silver road towards the angel on the horizon
I never got to the horizon; I went to the bottom of the ocean
The bottom of the ocean wasn’t shiny silver any more, it was grey
It was the grave of fishes
I remembered a great poet: Federico Garcia Lorca
I remembered his death, execution on a grey day
I remembered his song about the moon: go moon, go, go moon…
Yes, it was a night of madness
In the mad house I had to be injected with grey medicine
Living with the grey mad, and watching the grey moonlight at nights
Grey is like my fate, to be far away and a stranger
No, I have never liked grey
After all, there might be a bit of hope in grey
Yes, grey brings a powerful message: the end is coming for all of us
An end comes to exile, suffering and pain
This message is for all of us: happy or sad, rich or poor…
Grey’s message is so strong: there’s a dead end coming, for all of us
For me, the dead end is: not to be able to see her, not be able to feel love
Not to be able to hear the laughter of children, not to be able to kiss the river,
Surrounded by grey, and grey, and grey
No, I have never liked grey


My friend smiled and said: ‘Oh, grey is not bad
Grey means more experience and knowledge
Grey means deeper love, better understanding
Grey is the mixture of love, life and experience
Grey carries more love and life
Grey also is another colour of love; look, your hair is going grey too
Maybe he was right; the other night I saw a grey angel in my dream
I looked at my grey hairs in the mirror and I said to myself: oh moon, go, go moon