The splendorous veil
gave listless nights character.

Like a fretful child's shallow dream,
waiting for the lighting to shatter it;
Or waking to neon lights in utter blackness,
Weariness coated with melancholy of boredom,
Discomfort and disturbance at the finest.

Such a sweet thing, such stillness,
A mix of sulphur in the air,
and the savor of ripe fruits rotting.
Its vacillating presence roared
with the village's dirt.

The tiny sticks of burning fuse  
Formed a ring of fire we called shrine
That worshiped the spirit of liberation.
Unadulterated laughter was our prayers
Of the present soon-to-be told in retrospect.

Distant nights in Eden was heavenly.
No blooming roses, tall trees or the moon,
but a wallow in the decadence
of rubble was as good
as a midsummer night's dream.