Fireworks

They rise and sparkle and crackle, Shaming the nakedness of the skies And the city, with one frightful flame of Youth, Burning with the zest of Seasonal lore. At Christmas, they salute the days Creamed by snow and sleet, Thrusting in us the wisdom of Global ceremonies. They are the lightning of Yuletide — Lightning unaccompanied by rain. Shaped in balls and spears, and lean Fragments of flagrant colours, They are armed with their own thunder — Thunder that speaks volumes and calms the rage in Frenetic dogs. They are coloured paints splashed lavishly across the broadest Canvas ever —black and seamless We see through their lens, the running dusts Of sparks, The dancing circus of sky-circuits And the happy wars waged on the frontiers Of seasons. They strobe around the cold earth. New Year’s Eve is riddled with conundrums, Waking sleepy souls to sneeze up details of A frazzled year. The heavens are lit up lavishly, Electrified to stupor, Reminding us of choirs that chorus to the tunes Of life everlasting. Carousels ride through our minds, young now, Old tomorrow, With sparks that shine this moment And dim the next. Such is life.