Chinese Town

Was it flame or fire
that burned down the little Chinese town
back in those days
when my father would sell old coins
to the passers-by. His
sweat would drip from his eyes,
his hands broken up and aged
for a 16-year old.
In the wet market stands
he would hear of the greatest tragedy
that would haunt him and his children.
They say it was a candle's tongue
that spread the gossip all throughout. It
reached the ears and curtains
of every neighbor, the heat
increasing intensity in every household,
the innocent children, scalded by
those malicious lies.

My father had watched
the people run him by. They
almost carried their houses, he would say.
The ground had been dry,
the water could not reach their home.
Their house was deep inside the town.
There was nothing to save
except themselves.

The fires ate up
the roofs, the walls, the memories.
All my father had
were his old coins. He
held on to them like they were
his parents. He held back his tears
that could not drench the fires.
The flame still burns
but he only feels it inside.