Market place

The smoking of kebabs and frying in oil,
I hear the life from every door,
men selling food and women in saris,
I hear the streets of old Lahore.

The prices are cheap but not all can afford,
a twenty rupee meal is far to afford,
but the samosas are pretty and tangier the chats,
I remember them all as I go home past.

I came in for a while and loved this place,
and liked the life that's still alive late.

The people are beautiful and great at every time.
as every time is fun and filled with pun.

The yellowing streets with no halogen,
the pale rabdis talk to the sun to help them brighten.

I pass them everyday and every coming evening,
to see them smile again with their sweaty faces gleaming.
Today it was late and as I was passing by,
the market  was almost shut and some were bidding byes.

I bought a ragda samosa and as I passed the chowk,
a women quite old still sat to count all that she had earned,
she tied all the stoles in two huge plastic bags,
and sat down counting with every little that she ever learned.

A note of five and ten and few small coins of one and two's
it just managed to cross thirty with all day in the sun.
I was blank and numb now,
holding a samosa for a mere ten.

But then she was pleased
and happily took the bags, on one shoulder each
and walked from the Chowk,
to a dark road inside.

My next day was last here,
I went back the same way,
then bought these incredible Sindhi stoles
and left for my home back in Norway.

As I paid her at dawn,she was so contained,
she looked like the sum of all the Plato's claim.