The Fireworks Song

I need fireworks, made of molecules of air
that leave a sillage of oxygen trailing behind.

I need fireworks, made of volcanic lava
that rejuvenates the soil it burns and leaves stretch marks for future generations.

I need fireworks, because the night sky can use them for show, and because the day leaves behind a trail of silence, I get sleepy, and my eyelids flap by default.

I need them self-propagating and incandescent. I need them to defy determinism, transcend free will, and rejoice in quantum uncertainty.

I want them to travel the night sky downwards and fall onto my laps. I want to carry their burnt powders, take them to the Ganga, make dust castles out of them, perform ceremonial rituals of death, splash them among bathing Babas, shrug my shoulders to their thought I’m crazy, and celebrate birth.

I want to run after them as they travel the river, jump into the sea where they merge, and pretend I’m catching them one after the other. Until the sea waters laugh at me, until they too think I’m crazy. I will laugh along. In delirium.