By Reza Jaafar
The smoke from the roasted pigs cut through my nostrils -
Screech sound from the giant buses and the old red taxis honking
Weaved by different coloured skins -
But same smiles unpeeled
Stood straight like a British soldier -
The arch of Petaling Street
A mid-aged Chinese woman clacking her stilettos like thrown rocks -
In the river that stretched with hawkers like lilies -
And we, the dragonflies -
In and out, in and out -
With a gentle buzz, we brush past by
And those aromas of coconut rice are the ones we prey
My ears bristle with voices from the gutter -
Our chivalrous
Look at us now!
Merrymaking down the street that used to be so bloody
Red drips of martyr splattered on those walls, those jet-black tar
Do we really need to peer beyond the window and across the sea?
An Indian uncle sat on a stool near the chestnut stall looking ill
And the Malay boy handed over a green piece -
And a smile of goodwill
The evergreen scene of this street’s identity -
In ultraviolet light and under the glorious sun -
We blew by the breeze of prosperity
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