Mama waits for you at the fish pond,
her hands see you as in dreams
wishing that her eyes could.

lights begin to agitate
around the house without an entry
voices begin to threaten
tomorrow won’t be kind

Naked octopi
Having escaped from the ocean
Now lie on their sides above green vegetables
Shaped like coins.

I have the soul of an orphan
still trusting the life source from my umbilical stump
tôi có một tấm lòng của đứa trẻ mồ côi
vẫn thật thà tin nơi cuống rún mình đã cắt ra

Chúng tôi, nhiều thế hệ
Bị giữ lại bởi đèn đỏ
Chúng tôi không cất bước được
Chúng tôi không bay lên được

We stand at the intersection
Generations of us

Lời nói không thanh âm
Một hồ nước khô
Trên ý tưởng cạn nguồn. Ta đi xuống vực sâu đó

Anh không thể lấy em
Xin em đừng giận

I can do the transformation trick:
Make myself very small

they see themselves quite despicable whenever thinking about love-making
they see themselves quite wrong whenever thinking differently

Xin đừng vội tan vào buổi chiều
Chiều đang tan vàng ngất cô liêu

Oh please, not to fade so fast into the afternoon
The one that is scattering in a goldenly swooning loneliness

Theatre at Con Market, you were the Danang Winter
along with a ship’s sirens late at night
taking us on the farthest voyages ….

I forgot today is Monday
I’ve been waiting for this day, so to say,
for chance to see a painting, view a few poems
watch a dance on TV, danced by a girl whom I never liked, really

Ash cooling
a war horse
grudgingly raises his front
leg

a country crushed
whitened thrown out packaged cut grafted discarded burned hauled away
wrapped
staying put in oblivion

Pour me another drink, my friend
Sitting with you here has lifted my spirit
Tomorrow’s tasks are of no consequence
Forget them so we won’t be troubled

To live a life that is unfettered
Get used to losing your balance now
Muốn cho đời sống không cằn
Tập cho quen mất thăng bằng từ đây

The craving for a woman makes him pedal his bike round and round the city.
A few street sisters can be spotted on Red Cross Boulevard, popping in and out of sight from behind large trees. “Too much traffic, can’t do it,” the man thought.

And this sense, blood flowing over hands over musical instruments?
History moves its foot, slowly, taking its time.
The spider-web of paradise is weaving a tapestry of dreams:

When I first set foot on American soil, I couldn’t help but notice that the first feeling upon arrival was the same for all who arrived. It created a very deep and everlasting impression in my mind. But my disorientation at that moment only lasted for a short time, and I soon recovered. The strange feeling began as the airplane left Viet Nam.

we told each other those early fateful things
until the sun was blinding outside

those were fairy-tale rice plants
they did not need to grow up

It was a thing I knew for sure
a thing I knew how heavy my longing for it
was like: a man who fell flat on his face by himself
like the dead fallen flat on their own faces.

We use to sit our dinners out in front of the house
And dream of a future at noon among dippers of cold water
Sometimes we wonder how a story on the news
Could seem like some old tragicomedy

It’s so strange
The place where I stand might have the dead buried underneath
Just as many things that used to live
But things are still living and perhaps

a group of pilgrims
bore a cross through the skies of exile
on combat boots
one crusade
one dreamland

I open a blank page I open a blank page
to expand my place of shelter
no night no day
no first haste no last fatigue

Through the slits between my fingers. I see you
leaving behind. Colors from the moon slipping through like
threads. Tangled and dissolved. I have sown them onto my
left chest…

Vì tin vào định hướng, tránh sự xuyên tạc của kẻ địch
Tao quyết làm những bài thơ minh hoạ mà nội dung bằng hình thức, hoặc cao hơn.

Because of the belief in the policy, the retirement programme
I will make works not turning their backs to national art.