And after they left they kept coming back,
the graffiti to go home long erased, they smile
and try to get them to speak the old language
of the shining goddess. But every year there are fewer
to reply in the old language, only ones hurt more by soldiers
hiding from the revolution waiting across the water
as if it were temporary and the world would bring it down.
The tea was no longer left raw at least.
Their wooden houses are all collapsing as tenants give up
or each timber is replaced as a virtual relic for antique restaurants.
There’s not much romance in it anymore.
A few habits, turned shoes at archways,
soaked fish cakes at 7-11, but the happy-go-lucky tourist
coming south finds only the same waiting.
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