Saigon Before 1975 Poem by Natasa To

In the hush before the monsoon rain,
Saigon breathed in neon and incense,
its boulevards bright with Lambrettas and dust,
its cafés blooming beneath slow ceiling fans
where poets stained napkins with midnight sorrow.



The river carried stories from the Mekong,
brown and patient beneath French balconies,
while cyclo bells rang like tiny prayers
through alleys scented with jasmine, tobacco,
and bowls of steaming phở at dawn.



On Rue Catinat, silk dresses shimmered
beside soldiers drinking warm beer in silence.
A radio somewhere sang bolero songs,
thin and trembling through shuttered windows,
as lovers walked beneath tamarind trees
pretending the war was far away.



The cathedral stood pale against burning sunsets,
and old women sold lotus flowers
with hands weathered like folded maps.
Children chased kites over cracked courtyards,
their laughter rising above helicopters,
above rumors, above history itself.



At night, Saigon glowed gold and restless—
a city divided between perfume and smoke,
between violin music and sirens,
between hope carried in bicycle baskets
and fear hidden behind every goodbye.



Yet even then, she was beautiful.
Not because she was untouched,
but because she endured.



And somewhere in the warm tropical dark,
beneath lantern light and drifting rain,
the soul of old Saigon lingered—
half dream, half memory—
waiting for someone to remember her
the way she once was.