A pale bulb casts its amber glow,

Soft and mellow, over the wonton shop.

Its light falls tenderly on yellow-shadowed bowls,

Stacked in prim rows upon the counter,

Their edges gleaming faintly,

Kissed by steam that curls upwards,

Delicate as a bird's breath at dawn.

Evenings come here quietly,

Slipping into hands that move with gentle purpose

In the fragrant mist.

Fingers fold dough with the care of shaping secrets,

While others stir pots brimming

With the earthy scents of broth, ginger, scallions.

The bulb, suspended like a solitary star,

Pours its golden light into every corner,

Smiling at the way life gathers

Beneath its watchful gaze.

Dust motes, long forgotten by the hurried world,

Twirling lazily in their beam,

Stirred by shuffling feet,

By the muted hum of voices.

And oh, the laughter—soft and rich,

Mingling with clinking bowls,

With mellow-toned conversations,

As warm as tea sipped slowly

On these December evenings.

Here, under the bulb's gentle glow,

Life sings its quiet song.

The glossy floor catches its tune,

Reflecting a melody of fleeting miracles,

Of a world paused, if only for a moment,

To live.

It is enough—

Enough to be here,

Beneath the bulb of a wonton shop.