Festival

Silken shadows gather against the lighted square,
Our revels are yet to begin
A blurry sun too slow to fall has finally made its bed
And is presently replaced with rainbow flames
Some hidden shyly behind folded crepe,
Others tempted from their paper domes
By delicious smells wafting through the air
Weaving and ducking through sweet smokes,
Rising lazily from their sizzling beds

Footsteps hurry hither and thither always
Against the tide drifting neither here nor there,
Ruffle against boot, sleeve against collar
They compact in good nature
The one time no one seems to care

Flickering shadows amass upon silvery bitumen
Wet with paint in greens and blues and reds
Writhing as restless as the spirits that cast them
And the frivolities had begun
Signed by the crescendo of shrill laughter
Carry on

From whence comes this little girl,
Do you not see your mothers trailing hem?
To lose you amongst these restless waters
Would it cast you to unknown anywhere?
But still she only smiles
Yet infested with the ecstasy of her own breath

Now still, when the lights are dimmed
And only two exist upon the dance floor
They step up to the waving beats
Trying to capture this moment on memory’s film
When later, exposed to more glaring lights will omit
Those who watched and those who shook their heads
Some in pity and some in awe
At the perspective perfection of this moment

Still, be still when the candles cast their murmuring spells
But remember even as you forget
There are those who the spells won’t touch
And they will remind you to regret
Every emotion strung out by the melody
That softens every angle even now
That all is hidden yet in silvery mist
Every contour traced by soft darkness
Will break the spell upon dawning bright

So if you wish this moment to remain as it is
And as in the minds of many have done
What you wish to keep in this enchanted corner
Touched by magic in every breath
Transforming all into graceful swans
Then do not look back and do not tear
As they beat their wings upon morning
Dissipating silently in the distance
Leaving only a bitter taste

But when all’s said who would see the soulless streets
When all others had retired hand in hand to their respective beds
The wilted flowers, the crushed lanterns and the bright paper
Trodden to mush in muddy niches between stall and stall
Who would then see the cloth canopies disassembled?
Plank by plank beneath a greying sky
Or witness the wind sweep up all that had been abandoned
Or see the trees disrobed of their bulbed finery?
And when the street is once again choked
This time with impersonal machines and bobbing black umbrellas
All that would be left as a reminder to the festivities
Would be a napkin, by lucky chance,
Brushing lightly across the pavement in its escape