Horizon palm lines

Horizon palm lines

Written by: Bùi Sỹ Nguyên

On the strange and quiet road

I warm my hands with breath

The wintry sunshine makes me realize

I have yet to go grey


I must come back, it’s has been a long time

Mother feels a sting of pain

Whenever dreaming about me with my jacket in the cold weather

The prophecy have said

I am a spoiled child who never back home


My credulous mother

Makes offering to the gods

But they don’t even give it a glance


This season

No one sows the field

This afternoon

Wandering buffalo boys in this field

burn the stubble and laugh

White smoke up into the air

Like the clouds flying away

The past prophecy has worked

I am still a wanderer at 30


Still the same old stone dog

At the pagoda’s yard

Remember the days

I wanted to be like him

Sitting quietly

Waiting someone to find me

After hundreds of years


The prophet has said

This child’s palm lines are faded like the horizon

Such a strange thing!

How can you tell the future of a stone dog?


Growing up

The child goes through thousands of paths

From summer to winter afternoons

But gains nothing


He invites an angel to drink river water

Turbid water as his opaque soul

The angel cries when waking up from the dream

And the man clumsily counts those sadness


Remember the days

I took off my shirt

To be free in the inky night

To be awake with the stars


They are still there, in the sky

Seeing me through, with all my hardship

What are you looking for in the past?

It’s just a wild land with grass

Leaving no place for a trace


Remember the incessant rains

An unnamed attic

I lived peacefully like a paying guest

In the opposite rain-plashed side

There was a person sharing my sorrow

Whose name I could no longer tell

As memories declined


The old prophet next door passed away

I visited the grave on the 30th afternoon

The last day of lunar year

Putting my palm together

I felt the wind moved

The prophecy hasn’t lost


Please stay

To make this prophecy to fate

To sweep this sorrow away

To take the stone dog back home

Mother is waiting with feast

The buffalo boys is making melodies with bowls and chopsticks


And the palm lines will reach the horizon





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