You tell me, that it’s the Festival of Lights
Of Hopes, dreams & of Sulphur-winged Fireflies
Glittering transiently in the sky.
I want to believe you, I do.
But my battlefield of a body
Constantly haunted, by past tragedies
Looks at the orange sky, like Sauron’s Evil Eye,
And shudders, alone, at each thundering sound-
I only hear Guy Fawkes, this ain’t no Diwali.
This is Revolution. This is Retribution.
And it smells of Gunpowder, of Treason, and Plot.
The Sky colours up, with blood memories
Sparkles with wounds of distant explosions,
The City Cacophony, reminiscent of bygone wars.
Less Vision, More Blinding
Less Poetry, More PTSD.