My bedroom upstairs has a window,
It gives me a view of town.
And I can see the street below,
As I stand there looking down.
An old French window it's always been,
Reaching to the floor.
Its panes and frame are painted green,
To match the bedroom door,
Each morning I will draw the curtains,
And swing the green panes out.
Of what will greet me, I am certain,
As I hear loud voices shout.
The long and narrow street below,
Has become a noisy market.
People wandering to and fro,
With money in their pockets.
Hawkers call, and peddlers shout,
To visitors in their sight.
"Come and buy!" rings through the crowd,
They call with all their might.
Vegetable stalls full of leafy greens,
And spicy chillis red.
"Fresh and cheap!" you're almost convinced,
By words so earnestly said.
Fish mongers further down the street,
With the butcher at the entrance,
"Chop, Chop, Chop!" the cleaver meets,
The chopping board with a vengeance.
As morning gives way for noon day sun,
To take its rightful place.
The stalls are closed down one by one,
And go their separate ways.
My old French window is alone again,
Deserted by the crowd,
Its sturdy frame, and creaky panes,
Hang silently, staring out.
The Old French Window.
By Harold B Huang,
Friday 2021.04.30 18:09 hrs
GMT+8
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