Nowruz on the Shore

Hidden sparklers come out of pockets, dart through the air. They draw red lines in the darkness then burn the red lines they have made then scatter quick yellow and green and blue sparks through all the air, all around. Hand holding hand the ululations celebrate the falling of the red lines with loud voices. We dance around the fire we stamp our feet to the fast songs of the port. The sparklers dart through the air with the sound of a single shot – with a sound like the sound of a single shot – unlike a bullet in no way like a bullet, on the shore by the sea far from the square on our Nowruz night far from war, far from the field of war ...