The paper lanterns are all crimson
under the blue plum of night,
where colour spectrums spatter stars -
chunks of painted eyes
that gaud the sky vault.

Only a slight blemish of dark
filters between light and shadow
beneath verandahs and tight shutters.

His mission is indefinite -
to whispers of telemetry
he leans - arched toward the echo.
Will the lights spark to flame?

Scarlet pools steeped into the street
shriek and stir to ripples, walls giggle
and grind their edges.

He's hoping for news of change,
for promise in the winged shapes of dawn.