“Strolling in the late afternoon in the streets of Chinatown”

Crimson lanterns gently sway above,  
Their golden tassels brushing dusk-lit air,  
Spices curl in breezes, soft as love—  
Star anise, ginger, tang of steamed despair.

Pagodas etch the skyline, carved and true,  
Their dragon tails in painted twilight curl;  
Red-lipped shopfronts beckon me anew  
With glimmering baubles and sweet rice pearls.

A child’s laughter dances past jade tiles,  
As elders nod in circles, stories spun;  
The incense ghosts drift in and out for miles,  
And fortune’s cookies crackle one by one.

I linger by the herbalist’s old door,  
Where time is measured out in roots and teas,  
And cherry blossoms flutter to the floor,  
Whispering secrets carried on the breeze.

In evening’s lantern-lit, harmonious throng,  
I stroll, adrift, but somehow I belong—  
A note within Chinatown’s endless song,  
At peace as day and dusk are drawn along.

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