By the unknown street of Yangoon,
Where vendors set their humble stalls,
An Indian man set on a stool next to a
noodle stall,
There he was having his plate of plain
rice,
With only a pinch of fried noodles as
appetizer,
He swallowed his lunch, quietly.
It was like backed to the past, over 30 years in reverse.
A land with tiny buildings sparsely scattered,
Greeneries dominant its landscape,
Occasionally dusty roads cutting across out of nowhere,
Vast blue sky overwhelms the noon horizon.
The streets are the domain displaying vehicles transcend times,
all at once,
From man-pull carts, horse carts, ox carts, bicycles, tricycles,
motorcycles, vans, buses, sedan cars, pickup trucks, seven sitters, four-wheel drive
to luxury tourist couches.
Not forgetting the street vendors, pedestrians and bystanders.
All are there making the street a stage showcasing the most
ordinary yet lively dramas.
Tiny shop houses lining the dusty streets,
Yet the open floors are always clean and free of dust,
For the workers are always sweeping floors,
Disregards of the presence of their customers,
They sweep the floor every now and then.
I peeped into the dwelling chambers,
I saw just basic furniture,
There were neither decorations nor accessories,
Simple fenestration openings without curtain and security grills,
Floors were clean and free of frail.
On the street I looked at the plates of rice held in the hands,
Where labors and workers were having lunch on little stools,
Big piles of plain rice with petty appetizer, they chewed and
swallowed,
There was no expression on their faces, to tell how it tasted,
But a wring crushed my heart, telling me how it tasted.
