The people of the North have said,
“What be these Northern Lights
that seem to chase it’s playful tail
across the midnight sky?”
It holds the rainbows spectrum
steadfast in icy cones
that burns with Heaven’s fire
and dwindles at the dawn.
It crackles with a static noise
as colors writhe across the void
and parts the certainty of night,
then folds it back once more.
“And do not whistle at these lights,”
the elders often say,
“Because they’re the souls of children
who, in their special way,
entertain this mortal realm in a game
that only they can play.”
Or let us ask the poets,
the teachers of the hearts,
who labor in intangibles
and describe their many parts.
For ideas ache to come alive
beneath the poet’s pen. And dreams,
those visions of sweet desires, seem
closer than before through them.
And they might call them music,
encryptedly in disguise,
a symphony of colored chords,
a concert for the eyes.
But as I watch with wonder,
my heart it brims with glee,
and it reminds me of a Father’s pledge; of life eternal
at the last, and at last, His company.
For He fills the sky with laughter,
and in His tendered mirth
these lights of mystery burst out like fire,
for He likes to hug the Earth with love and man is His desire.
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