The crisp cold air is here,
Festivities galore, worries a mere,
The row with all its glitter,
Parents with their little ones, flutter
Fluffy jackets, various colors,
A book store around the corner,
Fiction, non, all within reach,
Macaroons, coffee, wine, surreal.
Sofas outdoors, under the heater,
Conical decors, cafe lights,
Till the ears can hear, eyes can see,
Music floating through the lighted sea.
Strolling through the utopia,
Eyes are full, cheeks rosy,
There is appetite to be fed,
Muted gazes, enough said.
In a trance, the street doth dance,
Sorrow gets trampled, worries masked,
We’ll wake up, dazed in the row,
Intoxicated by the season, lights, low
This is not going to end otherwise,
The night is not going to melt,
Pessimism is dead, there is no catch,
Senses aroused, nothing else is felt.
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