Rainbowman, you were never just seven colors for Rainbowman (レインボーマン - Reinbōman) by Stefano Donno

 Rainbowman,

you were never just seven colors.

You were a wrestler’s breath,

caught between the ropes and the ruin,

a body built for impact

before anyone taught you

how a vow can hit harder than a fist.

In India, the sky learned your name.

A hermit drew circles in the dust,

calling each grain a possibility—

moon, sun, water, fire,

forest, earth, lightning—

and told you to wear them

like new vertebrae.

He said:

when the world fractures,

you will answer in spectra,

not in bullets.

So now you move

through the static of a 4:3 frame,

a soft blur on aging tape,

VHS snow trying to bury your outline

while you keep stepping forward,

each stride a different element,

each element a different way of saying

I refuse your extinction.

Dash moon:

you shrink until only conscience remains,

small enough to slip through

the keyhole of a locked heart.

Dash fire:

you burn without ash,

turning slogans into smoke,

letting the children see

where the sky starts again.

Dash water:

you remember every name

the tide tried to steal.

Dash forest, earth, light—

you stand there, layered in myth,

a moving mandala of punches and prayers,

karaoke theme song still echoing

in a language some of us

only half understand

yet feel completely.

The Die Die Gang arrives

like every algorithm we’ve ever feared:

faceless, repeating,

optimized for erasure.

You answer with lagging special effects

and absolute sincerity,

a budget of almost nothing

and a heart that keeps overperforming

the script.

In another decade

they redraw you as robots—

seven machines that fuse into one

because the market believes

children love scale

more than solitude.

But somewhere,

under layers of merch and metal,

the original pact still glows:

a human being promising

to become plural

whenever “one” is not enough.

Rainbowman,

patron saint of low-resolution courage,

you teach us a new metric:

not sonnet, not haiku,

but how many forms

can a single life hold

before it breaks.

Tonight the world scrolls doom

in thirty-second loops.

Somewhere in that endless feed

we need you to slip between frames,

quietly switching dashes:

shrinking to enter the smallest fear,

cracking the concrete with a root,

flooding a city with one impossible act

of gentleness,

striking like brightness, not like war.

If we call your name now,

will you still come running

through the grain of our days,

mask bright, cape cheap,

every limitation visible—

and still,

against all believable odds,

completely on our side?