Saigon Before 1975 -- Poem by Natasa To

Before the years were torn apart,
Saigon woke beneath a golden sun,
with bicycles whispering down the streets
and old trees trembling when the day begun.

Cafés breathed their fragrant coffee,
thin glasses sweating in the heat;
a radio sang behind a doorway,
while sandals tapped along the street.

On Pasteur, bicycles drifted slowly,
past shuttered shops and balconies,
while áo dài moved like quiet rivers
through crowds beneath the tamarind trees.

At dusk, the Saigon River
held the sunset in its hands;
boats slipped home through violet water,
carrying dreams toward distant lands.

The markets filled with voices—
fruit, flowers, laughter, rain—
and somewhere a child chased fireflies
through a narrow evening lane.

Motorbikes hummed beneath the neon,
streetlights shimmered after rain;
the city wore a thousand colors
and dreamed of tomorrow again.

There were sorrows, too, beneath the music,
shadows falling out of sight;
for even beautiful cities
can carry war inside the night.

Yet memory keeps a gentler Saigon:
coffee, rain, and summer skies,
the scent of jasmine after sunset,
and warm lights glowing in tired eyes.

Before 1975 became a boundary
drawn across a nation's heart,
Saigon was a living, restless city—
always ending, always about to start.