"The dragon sleeps beneath the bridge where the three rivers meet," he whispered, tracing a line in the poem.
Across from him, his friend Ah Huat snorted. "You and your poems, Chen. Just look at the 4D results from last week. History repeats itself, it doesn't rhyme."
The humid air of the Geylang coffee shop was thick with the scent of roasted beans and the hushed murmurs of the "Uncle" brigade. At Table 4, Chen sat with a tattered notebook and a cooling kopi-O, his eyes fixed on the digital screen of his phone. Today was Monday—a draw day.
As the clock ticked toward the draw time, the shop went silent. The uncles leaned in. The digital display refreshed. One by one, the gravity-defying balls in the machine settled into their slots.
In the world of Singapore pools, everyone has a "system." Chen’s system was different. He didn't look at hot numbers or cold streaks. He looked at the —the rhythmic, cryptic verses of the Singapore Poetry. To the uninitiated, they were just stanzas about the moon and mythical beasts. To Chen, they were a roadmap.
"Three rivers," he muttered. "3. Bridge... looks like an 8? Or maybe 11?"
"That’s where you're wrong, Huat," Chen replied, scribbling into his book. "The numbers are the bones, but the Syair is the soul. It tells you where the wind is blowing."