2012-9-26 My city (Agnes Lam, HK)

This is a city
where a village boy could become a movie star of Hollywood renown,
where film stars demonstrated against nude photos of an actress taken against her will.
The death of an artist could draw thousands to the streets,
a white rose each in torrents of rain.

This is your city
where men are charmed by women intelligent and supple, skin
moisturized by humidity most months of the year. One married a Danish prince,
others are wooed with diamonds by neon waters and some still single fly
weekends to play golf.

This is our city
where vegetable sellers, taxi drivers, people in their seventies feel proud
a Hong Kong girl dreamt their dream, brought home Olympic gold surfing the winds
and waters off Cheung Chau, an island even smaller
than Hong Kong.

This is the city
which alerted the world to the deadly virus
named Sars, the city of researchers, working round the clock with scientists
in eight other countries, breaking its genetic code
in just three weeks.

This is a city
of people who donate money for flood victims in China.
Personal tragedies in newspapers attract immediate support from strangers.
A city where young people volunteer to clean old people’s homes
and orphans are not left alone.

This is your city
where most young men do not get drunk on Friday nights.
Most teenagers do not do drugs, few swear at their teachers and
most parents, however poor, still make sacrifices
for their children.

This is our city
with more mobile phones per square foot than anywhere else.
People do not tire of communication, with their friends, families, colleagues,
stock brokers, estate agents, slimming consultants, fortune tellers,
yoga trainers, image makers.

This is the city
with an award-winning airport
and glass castles where willowy shadows work long hours and the night
begins at nine in designer style,
sparkling with wine.

This is a city
of Chinese silk, Belgian chocolate, French wine, German cars, Swiss watches.
Scottish mountains in fog give way to Mediterranean sun and laughter. Foreigners
come for a year or two, attend concerts, watch fireworks by the harbour,
stay a lifetime.

This is your city
with measures against corruption ranking high.
Politicians attack each other only in words. Bombs are not found
on the underground and no one is imprisoned for what they say
as the whole world watches.

This is our city
where spies abound, masquerading as journalists, photographers,
researchers, art dealers, bartenders, restaurant owners, events organizers,
innocuous schoolteachers, honourable schoolboys and what else
I do not know.

This is the city
with a history
unforetold.

This is Hong Kong –
my city
of poetry.

20 April 2003, Hong Kong in spite of Sars (severe acute respiratory syndrome)