A visit to Baoli

Maybe the pigeons know, standing on the doors of their tiny homes,
A pair I could see, one massaging the other's neck,
Stiff on a weekday morning. 
Inside, a community adorns the walls;
There goes another, carrying a piece to bring home.





















Would their fathers and their father's father know,
Only if I could ask them,
If I could make the meaning out from their song,
But I sit here in silence,
Making peace with my ignorance after all,
As the tall buildings grow taller,
And these steps taciturn. 

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