Oenone

Hear me, hear me, Oh one born of fire,
You who suckled on bear's bare breast,
Ordered to die by your father's ire,
Clinged to life, an indomitable pest.

A fair judge you call yourself, hah!
You who wronged me, and all for a whore,
The golden crown, you gave Ares, bah!
Was it not just a page of a coward's lore?

Yes, coward you are, your battles unfair,
Poor Achilles, forever known for his heel;
That you shot, catching him unaware,
Robbing him of title, the warrior of steel.

Now you are injured, your suffering is mirthful,
Did you come crawling, calling me more beautiful?
Than that whore who has had men plentiful?
So that I may heal you, an existence sorrowful?

No, you send that whore to beg for your life,
She has the nerve to call herself your wife,
The pain of your love never really gets old,
But revenge is a dish best served cold.

Who lit that firework?

A single firework burst in the beginning,
Through and around us its showers shine,
From ages ago, until the end of time.

Who lit that firework, nobody knows.
Shocked He must be, just as anyone would,
If the sparks of our fireworks could speak.

Aren't we the happiest, when the black night sky,
Is peppered with sparks that shine ever so brilliantly?
What must be the purpose of our life then?

Dare I say, it must be to shine in the darkest hours,
And just as we are saddened by the fading sparks,
So must be He, at our fleeting existence.

But, however short it may be,
The smiles it brings, the memories created,
Must be etched forever in His mind.

If all we need to do is shine brilliantly,
If all we need to do is shine beautifully,
Then, does it matter who lit that firework?