Scatter sparkles into the sky
to set the little red engines running -
no smoke without fire
they say.
They say
remember, remember
that day in November
of cracks and combustion
of dying embers
and neon joy
that fizzles out too soon
for the hordes of huddles
strapping dreams to sticks
and shooting for the moon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem