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.