The red market

 The electric pulse of Sukhumvit,

A river made of light,

Where ballot dreams and crimson silk

Await the coming night.

The posters watch the crowded streets,

As New Year lanterns sway,

A nation poised between its past

And a red-gold holiday.

​I sit beneath the stall's bright glow,

Where spice and garlic flare,

With green papaya, shredded fine,

And heat that fills the air.

​Outside, they stand in silk and lace,

With beauty sharp and thin,

While shadows of a horror past

Still flicker on their skin.

With empty purses, heavy hearts,

And hunger in their wake,

They offer up a fragile hope

For every coin they take.

​One man offers a respectful nod,

And turns his gaze away,

Another counts his paper bills

And bargains for the play.

A cold exchange of currency,

A market built on skin,

Where the price of life is haggled down

Before the night moves in.

​Some find fortune in the dark,

Their heavy purses filled,

But most are weary, dry, and drained,

With hopeful spirits stilled.

They watch the hours slip away,

Their pockets light and cold,

To wait until another night

For stories to be sold.

​The Skytrain glides above the street,

A silver, silent ghost,

While I sit by the sizzling wok

And raise a heavy toast.

For every smile is painted on,

A mask for silent fears,

While deep within the business hum,

Flow unrecorded tears. 

The red market where the humanity is sold. 

Pain, pleasure love and lust unfold. 

Many sell themselves, some sell others, 

Some buy with care, most don't bother. 

​I finish my papaya salad,

Morning glory, and steamed rice,

And cut the heat with golden fruit—

Sweet mango, sticky rice.

I leave the salt and neon glare,

The city’s heavy bloom,

And walk the lonely sidewalk back

Toward my hotel room

சிகரன் 

Shukumwit 12

Bangkok 

27/01/26