The bonfire is burning since 7pm. The faces of the men singing Sniper, are hiding in the shadow, left to find by anyone joining the night. You’re here, but no one notices you, you’re underneath the bright sun of the fire, you’re the embers. Grey and white, refined as a pile of burnt bones, a powder that the women would apply to their foreheads in the bathroom of a dodgy club in Essex. The bonfire is big, big enough for the whole village to dance around, the underage drinking from the bottleneck as if they were sipping breast milk for the first time. As lonely as a newborn you feel but oh, even a newborn is taking are of. Do you want to be a newborn? Opening your mouth to the smile and the milk. You never had the pure beverage, your mum was too tired, she said – I cannot. The embers cannot say I cannot. Their purpose as ashes is to celebrate the Leo getting up above Earth. Oh look at this majestic figure rising upon you, the face of the joy, that you can’t provide. I always thought that the great ashes would spoil the mood – am I wrong? You’re here, all grey and depressing, looking around, asking for anyone to save you. Do you think a sailor will come to pick you up? No sailor would be in any need of some dirty dust. He’s already trying to get rid of it on his dinghy. I was saying, the bonfire is shining and you can’t suffer it, you’re choking from the heat it creates. Think about it though, without you the fire would be a spark in the dark, a flame in the night and would be gone forever at dawn. But oh you, you want to last forever eh. You want people to rest their heads near you, when they had enough dancing and drinking. You want them to rely on you when they’re feeling the most vulnerable, when they’re asleep and can’t move their pinky toes. The bonfire is burning since 7pm. But you want to be significant enough to last until 7am. Fair enough, who doesn’t want that? The embers will never repose.