It’s night

And Bukit Timah Road is glowing orange

With the visitations of

Halogen angels

 

I am alone on the bus

That groans and mumbles as if

I have company

But this is a solitary din

I dissolve into the evening on my own

 

Cars pass

Full of expatriates in transit

With Cold Storage* strawberries and

Unseasoned children

I see open lorries

Foreign construction workers precariously perched

Faces bristly as they dream sleeplessly

About dreaming by sleeping hometown rivers

At skeletal bus-stops

I see a beeautiful boy and a beautiful girl

Standing and watching the falling of silence

And I hunger for and loathe them

For they are beautiful

And they are still and quiet

 

All the while

The stars spin on as if the magic

Of our grandmothers works still

In our nameless midnights

On these widening roads.