Singapore looks prettiest at night when all the buildings flicker into life and transform the island into tinseltown.
But without the cloak of night and the mystery of the lights, all that remains is a jumble of indistinguishable buildings, poking out like shards of broken glass from the earth.
And so we turn our attention to the patches of green that jostle for space with the glass-walled havens man erects in which to earn his livelihood.
Rivers that bend and bow to the encroachments of human lives, obediently staying within the boundaries built to contain their exuberance, to direct their course of meandering.
But some things do not change.
The colour of the skies, for instance.
Still waters. The reflections you see in them, the truth staring hard in your face.
And the lone tree that stands its ground.
By day and by night.
Even if it were the hand of man that plucked it from another part of the world and planted it where it stands today.
To beautify the edifices pieced together by man.
It stands as a testimony to the beauty of nature, all that used to be, all that is not there now, but that which can never be forgotten.