Bilingual edition on loan from the library. I read the facing pages aloud to hear rhythm even when I do not understand every word in the original. The translator's note admits defeat gracefully — certain puns dissolve, but the grief remains.
The original language uses line breaks differently. English wants explanation; the source text wants silence. Reading both side by side feels like watching two musicians play the same melody on different instruments — related, not identical.
One poem describes rain on tin roofs. I have never lived under tin, but HDB rain on windows produces a related music — sharper at first, then settling into white noise that makes reading possible.
Another poem addresses a dead parent in the second person. The translation uses "you" where I suspect the original uses something more intimate. Still, I stopped on the MRT platform after that poem and missed a train without regret.
Shared weather as bridge between geographies — that is what literature does when it works. You do not need to have lived the exact life to recognise the temperature.
Returned the book one day late. Paid the fine without complaint. Some debts are small and worth keeping as reminders that the book passed through your hands and changed the air in the room.