Saigon After 1975 Poem by Natasa To

Saigon After 1975

After 1975,
Saigon woke beneath a different flag,
but the river kept its old name
as it carried the morning away.

The streets remembered—
the bicycles, the market cries,
the scent of coffee and rain,
the footsteps that had hurried
toward airports, ships, and silence.

On balconies,
new words replaced old signs.
Houses opened their doors cautiously,
as though history itself
might still be standing outside.

Yet Saigon did not disappear.

She lived in the woman
selling soup beside the alley,
in the boy racing barefoot
through monsoon puddles,
in the old man who still called
the river by yesterday's name.

At dusk,
motorbikes stitched the streets with light.
The bells of temples answered
the distant hum of the city,
and rain washed dust
from yellow walls.

Some memories left with those
who never came back.
Others stayed hidden
in photographs, letters,
and the quiet spaces
between generations.

Years passed.

The city grew taller, louder,
hung neon over its wounds,
and learned new dreams.

But at night,
when the river darkens
beneath the lights,
Saigon remembers
what the streets cannot say.

The names change.
The flags change.
The living carry on.

And the river keeps flowing—
past every border of memory,
past every victory and loss,
carrying the old Saigon
silently to the sea.