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Let Dust Blur the Pages

Let Dust Blur The Pages
 
By Phan Tan Hai
     
Let's close the pages, where the dreams still linger
let pen and ink flow the lines of poetry on their own
words written down are the incarnation of flowers for life
just like the wind has written on the page of the sky 
amidst the fast-blowing gales 
to become thousands of clouds
to become thousands of words that arise and fade away
to see that life is too short 
just like the clouds melt into infinity
who can hold the wind today
who can lock up poetry tomorrow
   
Let the wind blow away our youthful days.
when the cup of wine is still full
when passion still shines on the lips
when the eyes of the beautiful 
are still not far away
still bob around in lines of poems in the newspaper.
then we are sorrowful in our dreams
then we put the vague nostalgia mixed 
into ink, into words so that the paper can give off a scent.
then we hide the giggling of the beautiful into paintings
then we name her as the beauty among impermanence
we believe those are deathless
actually -- not.
the autumn turns the old pages yellow
the winter fades the smiling lips in paintings
is it because we run away from home, 
where tears seem to be far away?
   
Let's close the pages
The dust of time is quietly flying in, 
blurring ancient memories, 
erasing footprints of a time of the laborious walk.
We wanted to find the spring with the wind 
to put on paper the confluence of the blooming seasons.
Once upon a time, we lived as long as eternity, 
talked, and laughed like nights of sleepless joy.
Once upon a time, we still believed in the spirit of paper and ink, 
and chew over the lines of poetry that were about to be written
weighing the seemingly surreal words
Once upon a time, we still believed in painting
looking for magical colors
hoping to beautify the afternoons, evenings, mornings, and noons.
Once upon a time, we still believed in confluence words
then we would connect all the broken souls in the homeland.
then we would fold the papers and write down poems to make the bridges.
then we would sketch and paint to link all the galaxies.
then the words would become the rain to flood all the sorrow
then the colors would become winds to search for the clouds in faraway miles.
   
Let dust blur the pages
we are just a mirage of sunshine yesterday
we are just an image shown in the mirror 
we are just the foams raising up from the rain on a river
we are just a flash of lightning in a faraway sky
we are just a fleeting dream
we are just a drop of morning dew
but we lived poetically like the undestroyable diamond
but we lived compassionately like merciful mothers
but we bathed in the confluence of rivers from faraway horizons
but we transformed into poetry in the sunset afternoons
but we stood, walked, talked, and laughed in a dream from the ancient Hung Vuong dynasty. 
  
when the page closes
flocks of birds fly up from the lines of poetry.
  
---- To Khanh Truong, for the ancient days with Hop Luu

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