Guangzhou.

Uncles gather around peeling fruit

With tanned, labour-calloused fingers

The taste of bitter tea cut short

By the sickly sweetness of lychee

In the mid afternoon heat

Taking long drags from cigarettes

Till the smoke swirls in the air

Along with the rising dust

From barely paved roads

Disturbed by chattering motorbikes

Stray dogs wander from home to home

Before settling for a spot of shade

Atop a stack of old newspapers

Whose headlines matter little

To the people here

This is the place where

No penny goes forgotten

Pleasures are kept simple

Both troubles and bliss

Are accepted with the same unwavering certitude

Of a man who has lived a thousand times over

It is neither powerless resignation

Nor saturated naivete

Rather a peaceful settlement

With the history that has written itself

In the preceding centuries

And the promised writing of history beyond

Their mark in time