Đinh Phạm Thái

I call your name into the depth of the mountains; over Thành Tuyên the dusk hollows out the sky. When you left, I still wore a child's topknot; now I stand grey-flecked among the reeds. The Lô coils round like a chain of silver; the shadow of the Lai hills swirls upon the rapids. All I want is to find, in the earth and stones, some little part of what was your flesh and bone…

Her legs trembling, she gropes for the worn old cane — afraid of grasping the whip that still lies somewhere near.

Night at Phố Châu — the path fades beneath the moon; a seed of dry cloud falls into the stillness; your waiting eyes… Bamboo bursts by the sulphur stream; the censer breathes the incense of souls; the border's spirit keeps Hải Thượng's footprints; wild grass and trees give men their lives back.

Tomorrow I go home to Hương Sơn, up to the very springs of the Phố; Lao wind — the spotted deer rubs its antlers on the waning moon…

Look: you smile, rosy dimples — walking in the light chill without seeing evening fall. ("Untitled") With your curved pole you hold back the cashew fruit; by accident I brush the shy mimosa's thorn — a small pain, as if to make us remember. ("A moment on the Đồng Nai")