A solemn procession
congregates on
choked streets,
candles
bathed in blue
motorbike light.
They spill up
sacred steps, and
knock for entrance – – –
Silence echoes.
Barred by
no one, the door
slowly opens
– at last! –
salvation briefly
denied.
Wizened women
bow over
golden icons
– kissing glass
wiped at
intervals –
plant lit wicks
in sand:
birthday cake
blooming with
death,
flickering reprise.
The flame ferried
from Jerusalem
ties the crowd,
fans out
synapse to synapse,
collapsing, while
fireworks
hide behind
steeples,
elliptical exclamations
louder than
artillery – – –
delible decibels
marking children,
who weep
in their wake.
