Describe a street festival

A firework display of colours bursts below. The blood red, lion yellow and sentimental blue
merge together. Victory gathers. Surrounding the pulsing crowd, the walls of the buildings,
normally isolating and lifeless, shimmer with a warm, orange glow.

Above people’s heads the silence hovers. Their eyes gaze in stillness at the blinding sun. As
the plane rumbles into view, smiles sparkle on the upturned faces. A child’s mouth drops in
amazement: the plane’s puffs candy-floss clouds of smoke. Gleaming grey, the metal of the
plane glistens in the spotlight of the sun.

The wings of the plane, like arms, encircle the crowd in the shadow they cast, and the
colossal ailerons, like hands, wave farewell to the sun. Like lightning before the storm of
sunlight returns, the breezes of coldness strike those beneath. A man’s pupils dilate and
constrict in a split second as, reacting to the sudden shock of the freezing shadow, he gasps
a mouth full of the mutated air.

Like birds of paradise, confetti swirls around in circles, dancing, flapping its wings, bright
feathers sprinkling light and shining like fire in the sun, bursting in patriotic passion. Triumph
reigns. On the clay sea lands the confetti – emerald green, ruby red, amethyst purple and
pearl white. It drifts and gathers, turning in the wind on the tides of bitumen.

A woman’s hopeful hand, elegant and graceful, reaches up to catch the last of the falling
confetti. The light shines through the translucent paper. Humming the melody, a single voice
resonates. Gradually the sound of music vibrates in the air all around the square drawing in
the thousands of people. A thousand people in every corner sing the song of the people, the
triumph of the revolt – the homophonic sound made by those of all generations. Their voices
crash like a tsunami, charging into the brick walls, relieving the weights of their sentimental
strains alongside joy. The pavement, uneven and baking in the heat, shakes as they sing:
the earth hears their triumph and celebrates with them.

The outstretched arms of the strong, sweet odour of flowers grasp the nose of the crowd,
encircling them towards its heart. Pounding to the rhythm, the scent expands its coverage
outwards; its voice hovers upon a single buffet of wind, mesmerising and calling to those in
the dilemma of triumph celebration. The odour exudes love and victory.

And in the centre of it stands, draped in flowers, the statue. Having summoned the spirit of
war, he grips the sword of gold: sparkling and glistening a dark copper under the spectrum of
sunlight, it exhibits their success in its purpose. People cling to it, attracted by its legend of
luck. A homeless man – his eyes focused only on the God-like statue, his knees resting on
the harsh, clay ground – wishes for a life filled with riches. The statue stares with stony
silence and an empty gaze.

A strike of blood red breaks free from the pulsing crowd. It runs away up into space, diving
through the snowing confetti, combating the vibration of engines, chasing the liberty high up
in the sky where man cannot be. Under the sight of the little boy, it flies. Still, the buildings
shimmer.