I forgot the name
of my old town
and the familiar
dialogues
spoken by the
tooth-missing
oldtimers,
whose skin
was leathered
by the Sun.
Stories written
on their faces
got lost somewhere
on the alleys,
where peddlers
used to
trick kids
into buying
colorful cotton candy.
Grandma’s cat
had gobbled its
last can of sardine
long ago, yet
its languid yarn
still faintly lingers
in my memory.
I see old phantoms
wander between
gleaming skyscrapers
and highways,
where their
homes were
buried
underneath.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 9:38 AM UTC
I forgot the name
of my old town
and the familiar
dialogues
spoken by the
tooth-missing
oldtimers,
whose skin
was leathered
by the Sun.
Stories written
on their faces
got lost somewhere
on the alleys,
where peddlers
used to
trick kids
into buying
colorful cotton candy.
Grandma’s cat
had gobbled its
last can of sardine
long ago, yet
its languid yarn
still faintly lingers
in my memory.
I see old phantoms
wander between
gleaming skyscrapers
and highways,
where their
homes were
buried
underneath.
Hey readers,
This poem is inspired by urbanization and the gradual loss of indigenous culture.
Request permission to use this poem