When the morning roosters crow,
and the Da Nang air holds
the stillness of the night.
My friend arrives on his bike,
the cloud of dust from his brakes knocks on the door.
Our plans, as certain as the sunrise.
We set off, the town slowly stretching from its slumber,
our bikes whispering along familiar paths.
We approach the bridge,
and wave to the Uncle that guards it with his fields.
A slender arc over the water,
barely wide enough for one,
but can somehow always fit two.
We cross side by side,
a silent pact of bravery and trust.
In the park, under the shade of ancient trees,
we sit on blue plastic chairs,
our thrones for kings of the day.
Our rollerskates kiss the concrete, a chase around,
laughter echoing, a symphony of joy.
Down to the river, bikes in tow,
we wander, hearts open to the sky.
Until our first glimpse of them.
“Those people, who are they?”
They carry their bikes down our ramp,
board a boat adorned with the eyes of our god.
Foreigners in Da Nang? During peace?
They wave to us, passerbys wave back.
But not him, he looks on, a silent bold,
a pause in our melody.
The river calls him out of his spell.
He touches the water, while it is still here with us.
"Where do you come from?" the water asks,
"Where will you go?" the wind whispers.
In Da Nang’s embrace, there’s nothing to fear.
She protects us, through each step of our story.
But who protects Da Nang?
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