In a world that melted into color,
he was the first rainbow.
A guitar note lost in the air of Cambridge,
a child who looked too deeply into the sun
and stayed there, in the light.
“We’re all mad here,” whispered the Rabbit with the Watch,
and Syd smiled
for madness was never illness, but a portal.
Through mirrors and shadows,
he carved silence into echo,
turned sorrow into liquid light.
He never left, he dissolved into frequencies.
Pink Floyd remains a shattered mirror
where, for a moment, you can still see his reflection:
a dream singing by itself.
“If I had a world of my own,” said Alice,
“everything would be nonsense.”
And perhaps Syd’s world was the truest one of all
where butterflies had strings,
and the mind was only an amplifier of the soul.
In the hush after the final chord,
you can still hear him.
A string breathing.
A story that never really ended.
Shine on, you crazy diamond.
