Under the April sun with its searing heat,
He has come once again to this place,
Strewn with rows of neatly placed stone-structures,
In the midst of fleeing ashes and burning papers.

He kneels in deferential, holding burning joss,
Bygone memories revisited,
Smoke and ashes assaulting his nostrils,
As he reaquaints with souls long gone.

There's, where he squats, a fire roaring to life,
Like a child new born,
Gaping hungrily at his parents, wanting more,
If they want it grow.

Obligingly, he feeds the child with all
That he has brought,
Sending, piece by piece to its mouth,
Lest choking the hungry child.

Like a father to his own baby,
He tends the fire carefully,
For he knows it must has its fill,
Before his wishes be fulfilled.

From roar to burp, the fire slowly ceases.
Now ready is the time,
Out he tosses two moon-shaped blocks,
Looking out for signs divine.

Happily, he jots down the numbers,
the answer to his piety,
Given to him by souls long gone,
For the visits he makes yearly.

Leo Kee Chye

Thursday, July 22, 2004