Writing Catalog

Manasvi Gurajala

Grade: 8

Solon High School

Instructor: Lindsay Trutza

Sparkly August Nights


Sparkly August Nights

We dreamt
A dream of an inky, electric sky;
Rātri, we replace the ebony ink with smoky gray;
The exquisite boysenberry nebulas which once warred against the dark of the night una bella negra,
Gone. replaced with the char-like essence of grimm air.

the estrellas
which sparked and flashed
like they held a live current behind them
a glimmer of something thrilling yet frightening—
for they had burst into
obsidian and onyx, jet precious
Superseded with wires which hold real electricity behind their crooked metal;
Yet holding none of the indefatigable energy
Like their bodies were sparking under the surface;
With the thrilling possibility of bursting into flames at any moment, creating them selves anew—
Of the estrellas

We dreamt
A dream of a vast aquamarine; calm waters, caressed by the moonlight.

Glittering and vast
Swelling with the melodies
Timeless in the light

Sūryāsta, we replace the vibrant coral with empty shells of ghosts
The waters, which seemed to be stuck in a swift limbo
Between worlds;
With ebony waters hoisting the silenced
Cries of the inhabitants ripped from the
That raised them.
The same place we slide bands of jewels onto fiancees;
We slide rings of oil onto the ocean, holding out its eager
Blue fingers
As we crush the delicate, fragile waves
With the rings we crown them.

Yet Every time, The ocean returns back, Its waves pleading And every time, We crown it tiaras of plastic, rings of oil Veils of nets Capturing its beautiful diamonds— The very animals that reside in the deep.

Yet. It comes back Every Time Sobbing. Its tears as salty as the pain we place on the ever blue waves Dinoflagellates are thrown around Danger lighting them up to create these sparkles The beauty of trauma But there is nothing beautiful about the once enigmatic ocean Withering in our sight—

We dreamt
A dream of a green,
Green world.
Daisies and dandelions, poppies and pansies
Dance across the grass, stuck in a forever limbo.
Sūryōdayaṁ, we replace the bucolic ambience with rough turf
When will we turn these dreams
Into truths?

Because when I was young
On sparkly august nights
As frost creeped across the world
And flakes of snow threatened to fall
Like the leaves that smelled like pumpkins and remembrance
If you held them close enough—
And crisp,

I sat side by side
By another
Who held my heart in their hand
Sporting rough smiles and full hearts

As I thought this moment
Was like a river;
Poised on the edge of falling forever—
And in that moment
I genuinely believed that I
Could stay here forever.

On the brittle, rough sand
My feet dipping in the sharp, biting waters
Eyes above on the stars,
Watching the sun set
Fire to the ocean
Creating our world anew
My pulse dancing a vigorous salsa
As I breathed in
The freshness of it all—
My inky eyes
Bleeding with salt
As a thousand memories sped past my soul.
If these perfect moments
Would last
So my sisters
My brothers
My children
My grandchildren
And beyond
Would have these perfect moments

Where the ocean came back to lick their feet, and the sun rose to see their smiles—
Alongside me.


We act
Like the world's fate is simply
A plate of hors d'oeuvres
We're dishing out.
If the world must be the gunpowder,
And we are lit matches
Destined to ignite
Then let's use that fuel to make this dream
We dream
A truth.