Nothing to say to that: I am THE color!

Ask anyone, do try: "what is the color?" If they don't tell you Red, I'll blush red with shame, I swear.

I'm Red, yes, the orb of the rising and setting sun, painting the night with hope for the next day.

Slanderers will say that I'm violent and fiery. I won't deny it: sometimes I shout, and run like blood, but it's never, believe me, never by my choice. Men always foist this part on me.

I myself, would rather dwell in the poppies in the field, perhaps even in the big and gorgeous opium ones, in the roses to make bouquets for loved ones, in the living coral, that deep, invisible waves stroke, together with the sea-fans, on the uncorrupted bottom of the sea. I'm the color of summer fruit, the cherries, the fresh watermelon, and the tomatoes: who ever remembers that I came from the New World, when I'm everyday in the kitchen. Also, I'm the color of autumn, of the changing leaves of the creeper covering the garden wall. The color of wine in the clear crystal tumbler. Red like the flame and the embers in that fireplace around which you sit to eat roasted chestnuts, and to listen to those "Once Upon A Time" tales.

Red like a crazy horse, like a rooster's comb, and the hair of some weird friend. Maybe Pippi Longstockings, do you remember her? Or that other one, Rapunzel. But it could be a Scarlett, a Ruby, a Ginger.

I could be now the red apple you rub with your sleeve until it shines, and have for a snack. But to prove to you my inner sweetness, my closeness to your steady, comforting heartbeat, I chose for you the scent and the aroma of the strawberry. Try me, and I dare you say I'm not tender!