The starworks burst
and their colors fly,
rushing fast to their finale,
and seen to be a beauty by the eyes
that watch them die.

As she splits the evening crowd,
visions set to the sky,
she has only to lift her arms high,
to the beauty,
confident and sound.

'Just before the ides of July,'
she declares,
her tone as icy blue
as the satin gown she wears,
'you will all have your wishes,
your fourth of July dishes,
and (why)
you doth cry?
You haven't a clue.'

The celebration of a distant independence
has received a substitute of mistake,
drinking,
and repentance.

And as each starwork bursts
and each color doth fly,
the sins of your present,
and the knowledge of your past
cancel out,
leaving us all insignificant playthings
on the ends of which strings she holds.