Three bells sound within a mist.
Sheng Street fills with butterfly light aromas;
pillows shine of satin
while incense speaks to spirits.
A sea of black plaits sway in tides
of black shirts.
Black unto black, black blends
into night.
Frozen dragons snarl from smoky dens
where voices of ancestors gather
in corners.
Painted faces pause in shyness. Pearls lay
dull and lifeless.
The blood of families
sleeps in the soil of the street.
Roger Singer 