In solitude he sits on his stool,
a tortoise seller, silent,
his wares hang heavy on a battered stick;
like dawn’s last hope.
He’s fishing memories at early eve,
hoping a housewife will choose his quiet plight,
to simmer in soup or serve at evening’s end -
a simple wish, for an uncomplicated soul.
Passers by rush in a hurried, faceless stream,
oblivious to quiet dreams,
of open fields where tortoises run free.
His hands - weathered by silent years -
clutch at shadows, hopes, and fears.
He no longer sees a place beyond this stall,
where hopes are not so slow to crawl,
his patience bears its tender fruit,
life’s small miracles are absolute.
He sits as slow as tortoises do,
in a city’s scent of cabbage and soy,
a faint, lingering taste of what he’s lost -
a silent longing,
a quiet cost.