Their egg-like heads so oddly shaped
and skin turning to brown from yellow
their shirts a uniform blend of green and brown
their packs all slack but loaded
-
Their eyes some closed some open, excited
their mouths filled with banal chatter
their minds all living in the fleeting present
while their most intense memories lie dormant
-
Some grudging gazes draw down towards the sea:
swishing, dimly lit by ferry lights
the others fall forward, faraway, inclined
where the flag imperially beckons
-
Their pride from pain and sweat forged
their spirits repeatedly broken then mended
yet these things held dear carry but little worth
being in every other Singaporean’s possession.
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