One thousand years of being a capital
Of countless foreign invasions
From East, from West.
And still the old trees
Line the narrow streets
And the people, polite and courteous
Drink endless cups of tea
Outside crumbling doorways
And drivers sound their horns
For no apparent reason
And sidewalks are for parking motorbikes
And street vendors to place their wares.
I step inside an ancient Chinese doorway
To a mysterious Chinese temple
And find myself in a leafy, shady courtyard
Where the constant din of the street
Fades away.
No comments:
Post a Comment