From the rubble, broken brick and glass,

Rises a phantom to haunt us.

A living, breathing building

Still echoing

With the frantic shrieks of our ponding nights

(The most bizarre of bonding rites!)

Shadows of ourselves and the many moods

Of block suppers while the crickets chirped in the woods.

Now and again the clarion call

“Oei Block D, supper stall!”

When the one cosy kitchen was bare

Or we were sick of instant fare.

Or NUH for ‘Strawberry Kisses’,

Where the warden usually hisses

“Do be quiet, the patients need to rest!”

And not to forget the week-long Buaya-fest,

A line of underwear

Across the block laid bare,

While in our very own pond

Frogs gaily announce their mating bond.

Oh those days of free washing machines,

Low-cost effective dry-spins

And communal drying lines...

For these, each and every heart and pocket pines!

Undie thieves, rats and bats,

No lifts so we’d never get fat!

The funny-smelling little lounge, cramped and blue,

The spooky stories of the rooms and loo!

And most of all the people,

Of communal life the crowning pinnacle;

The builders and keepers of that memory bridge

That links us still to Lower Kent Ridge.

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