Beauty has no colour, beauty is sometimes a scent of spring that comes from the skies or just a cup of red wine spilled between two men. Beauty is nor black, nor white, has no meaning then that of being and not being caused. Who is always beautiful and who does not wear at least once in its life, the signs of beauty on his smile? Is it beauty alone a beautiful thing? Is it worth sacrificing small pieces of human soul for it? Does it stand for more then it is and does it say more then it should? Sometimes beauty has a colour but not a human one, sometimes beauty find its colours and shapes in the sun, and seeds its roots in the ground, as a daisy. Sometimes everything surrounding us has the smell of daisies in the morning.