The market is bustling.
Rows of stalls, gleaming bright lights,
Cries from vendors, buyers alike,
Smoke rising, filling the still night air,
Food made and sold nearly everywhere.
One Char Kuey Teow, maybe some apam too,
Wrapped in newspaper, just for you.
Whatever the want, whatever the need,
Nobody lost in the jungle of greed.
The busker stops and lays down his hat,
Pulls out his guitar and takes a step back.
Almost invisible, lost in the crowd,
Nobody notices as he starts to sing out loud.
He sings in time with the strumming of his guitar,
Songs found locally, songs from afar.
Melody and harmony, with poise and grace,
The busker sings every word with a smile on his face.
A man and a woman could not help overhear,
The beautiful music ringing in the air,
They stop upon seeing the bright young man,
Appreciating the talent shining in front of them.
Soon more people stop and a crowd begins to gather,
The Busker's hat heavier than ever,
Vendors stop working to join the crowd,
As the Busker sings even more loud.
For that one moment, the market is quiet,
No more chaos, no more riot.
Everyone listening to songs of love and peace,
Their hearts calm, their minds at ease.
But all good things do not last long,
And the Busker starts his final song.
A song about wars and cries unheard,
Finally, the Busker sings the final word.
He stops and smiles, and clapping ensues,
whistles and cheering, cries of ' I love you '.
But soon the crowd reduces in size,
As people return to their daily lives,
And after the Busker shakes hands with the final fan,
He scoops his hat and counts the money in hand,
Again he is invisible, lost in the scheme,
As if nothing had happened, as if it were all a dream.
The Busker picks himself up and walks away,
Ready to come back and sing on another day.
