Yellow is the centre of light that smells of excess, of a wide and exact fullness of time. But there is also a domestic fragrance of watery cologne in the first sun of the day, slow lemon juice spilling into the indecisive glass of the East.
In the West, in contrast, a yellow that is almost red dies, draining the passion of the last liqueur and then it smells painfully of the heart of fruit, of a burning that envelops the seed.
There are yellows with a thick solar perfume and others which bear an old aroma of well-worn memories. And the sea vibrates in aromas with restless roots, which announce an unattainable and gloriously naked body, when August lays on the rind of the water its reasons of yellow light.
Berta A. Cáccamo