3:18, 230315

we have all just woken up.

the air is thick with last night’s rain
and something else.
out of bed the whispers flood in,
in the green lift and running late into the car
and doors that seem reluctant to close
squeeze tears out when they open,
merging, and then separation once more.

on the radio we hear mourning translated
into a lugubrious tune, flanking
the little people in this little hand-built land
in their little cars with little windows
watching the traffic outside move in slow-motion,

cars on the PIE this morning resemble a funeral procession –
in a way,
everything does. a bleeding flag
will fly at half-mast
and today even seditious men
are quiet.

sitting in the back seat of our second-hand camry,
it scares me that children of tomorrow
in their self-driving cars and 10-million population will not
know tiny singapore and its years of toiling
like we do.

but even now we hardly do.

you with your jaded eyes and perpetual discontent
look up look out look around
and see how far we have come.


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