I’m not sure I ever intentionally write anything. That is, I just write. Most times I get something like what I envisioned, such is the case here. I saved this one for last because these are the common people (proletariat) typically signified as (grays) I think Brown is a better choice. Like you said the common person is grounded. Two kingdoms over there’s a purple king who is fighting so the “browns” can have more. The red Queen will send the proles to war because her roses are the wrong color… I had hoped for a loose theme with the 10 colors.

All that being said I have inspiration for this one as it is an answer to a favorite song lyric of mine. The song(s) are know as “Weather Report Suite/Let it Grow” by the Grateful Dead and those lyrics are by John Perry Barlow.

Part 1
Winter rain, now tell me why,
Summers fade, and roses die.
The answer came; the wind and rain.
Golden hills, now veiled in gray,
Summer leaves have blown away
Now what remains? The wind and rain.
And like a desert spring,
my lover comes and spreads her wings,
Knowing,
Like a song that's born to soar the sky,
Flowing,
Flowing 'til the waters all are dry,
Growing,
the loving in her eyes.

Circle songs and sands of time,
and seasons will end in tumbled rhyme,
And little change, the wind and rain.
And like a desert spring,
my lover comes and spreads her wings,
Knowing,
Like a song that's born to soar the sky,
Flowing,
Flowing 'til the rivers all are dry,
Growing,
the loving in her eyes.

Winter gray and falling rain,
we'll see summer come again,
Darkness falls and seasons change
(gonna happen every time).
Same old friends the wind and rain,
Summers fade and roses die,
You'll see summer come again,
Like a song that's born to soar the sky.

Part 2
Let it Grow

Morning comes,
she follows the path to the river shore
Lightly sung,
her song is the latch on the morning's door
See the sun sparkle in the reeds;
silver beads pass into the sea

She comes from a town
where they call her the woodcutter's daughter
She's brown as the bank
where she kneels down to gather her water
And she bears it away
with a love that the river has taught her

Let it flow, greatly flow,
wide and clear

Round and round,
the cut of the plow in the furrowed field
Seasons round,
the bushels of corn and the barley meal
Broken ground, open and beckoning
to the spring; black dirt live again

The plowman is broad as
the back of the land he is sowing
As he dances the circular
track of the plow ever knowing
That the work of his days
measures more than the planting and growing

Let it grow, let it grow,
greatly yield

What shall we say, shall we call it by a name
As well to count the angels dancing on a pin
Water bright as the sky from which it came
And the name is on the earth that takes it in
We will not speak but stand inside the rain
And listen to the thunder shout
I am, I am, I am, I am

So it goes,
we make what we made since the world began
Nothing more,
the love of the women, work of men
Seasons round, creatures great and small,
up and down, as we rise and fall

Check it out
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=IN6mjNMNytY

I love this and I hope that my answer to Barlow’s lyric is a fitting homage to one of my favorite poets now passed into oblivion.

So glad I get to share this stuff with you all,
Tim