The buildings are tall, stacked like Dahlia pink
with traces of delicate red and white.
The aroma in each house has a link,
permeating the lonely scent of the night.
I name a cicada and a cricket
that saunter the palm tree’s pale green branches,
croon a peppy tune in the night’s blanket
and spread leafy scent on empty benches.
The southern wind carries the paint of church
with the fragrance of the temple’s sandalwood,
moving past the sycamore, pine, and birch,
breaking the secretive night’s dark-green hood.
Now the scent is replaced with toxic fume
and the new name is ‘industrial boom’.