Beside the traffic lights,
at the crossroad,
in Hong Kong’s busiest district,
where my writing originated.

I asked them to listen to my stories
about a boy and his crossroad.

Where he met a fish vendor with umbrella,
whose benevolence was mistakenly heard.
So the boy ran and ran and ran,
until he grew up.

I asked them to listen to my stories
about a boy and his crossroad.

Where he met a woman collecting cardboard,
who longed for her lost son.
“mother I miss you”, so the boy said and
the woman cried thank you and thank you
until she was no longer there.

I asked them to listen to my stories
about a boy and his crossroad.

Where he saw the warmth of Chinese New Year,
whose love is 8000 miles away.
So the boy sighed and sighed and cried and cried
until his nostalgic tears are drained.

I asked you to listen to my stories
about a boy and his crossroad,
so that one day, when memory is aged and blurred,
the boy can still remember the vendor, the woman, the New Year, and the crossroad
Who helped him grow.