Muted conversations are heard in the street
In the gray shadows of the houses of dusk.
Women squat on the steps of their houses
To discuss kids, husbands and neighbors.
Their memories go back to other evenings
Of kids, drunk husbands and bad neighbors,
Of the pretty floral designs before houses
Other women made in rice powder and color.
The incense smoke from four-armed gods
Enters the streets, reaches up to the tall trees
And electric wires, goes up in silken swirls.
As darkness sets tiny white flowers break out
From loving mother creepers on the houses
Like the stars we see burst on our roof at night.