The nouriture of hair


                    Nothing is a shame
                    everyday try to write some verses
                    although the poetry has wasted its words
                    it could remind me thing after thing
                    That my heart has still been in debts
                    those of literature -- a morning, an evening
                    of country closed to the whole life
                    and rivers and lakes -- a so sad burden!
                    That I am existing on earth
                    to be a human in a mayfly
                    starting a race early in the morning
                    examining conscience late in the evening
                    Did stone and gold finally know who I am?
                    that virtual image is not mine
                    to present now and then in another life
                    to stick a sloping pole on the strange soil
                    Living, sometimes -- all white bones
                    death, also -- a dry skeleton
                    where to shelter the immigrated soul
                    will be there a tomb later on?
                    Tie the hope into the blue future
                    advice myself to finish the rest of thousand verses
                    although the poetry has not been iron and steel yet
                    it also might bring the gray hair up.

                          HOANG XUAN SON
(21 March 1998)

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