by Michael Ondaatje
A narrow lane with dentists crouching in sunlight,
lady barbers, book repairers, sarong tailors.
Along the post office wall a gathering of mynahs
in their youth being trained to sing, the way
you transmit knowledge to a descendant.
Sea Street and Moon Street. Along Hulftsdorp Street,
at pavement level beside the Supreme Court,
a quicker solution to legal cases during a divorce,
as if simply re-threading metal ribs of umbrellas
after a storm.
Elsewhere meetings on the art of praise, the slow skill of forgery.
Street scribes who clarify the few rules of marital love,
then swerve to articulate a sudden desire.
Tragedy, they say, is impossible where Fate depends
on incomprehensible knowledge.
At midnight the stern entrance of dyers who steal colour
out of the bark of trees to paint temples.
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