Lamps into the soft spun dawn,
Sweet glow in echo to rising sun,
Poetry of eye and soul,
Bring sweet reflective mood,
Ambience of good things to come.
It was the festival of lights. Along the usually dark wintry lane shone hundreds of lamps; illuminating with their flickering candles. The light was cast every colour by the tinted panes and Tina couldn't help but be reminded of candy. It was as if the lane was iced by the baker on the high-street, and even better than the cake she had last birthday. Everywhere there were folks in their winter garb, thick woollen jackets, mitts and scarfs. To add to the gaiety most children carried a lamp of their own making, their gentle puffs of steaming breath made visible by the glow, only to disappear into the inkiness. At the stroke of eight on the old town clock would come the first wave of songs, songs of thanks to echo into the homes of even the curmudgeons. Tonight the windows of the hospital would be open despite the cold, the doctors believed the multitude of voices from young and old alike to have a stronger effect on their patients than any medicine they had to offer.