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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required By Phan Tan Hai This I only write, but do not say— that if only you were a machine, so I wouldn’t have to hear your questions about the eternal things I never understand. That if only you were a machine, so you wouldn’t watch the nightly news and wonder about distant sorrows— about mothers fleeing with children in Ukraine, about children crying from sniper fire in Gaza, about the shouting from holy-war skies, about bomb-rains collapsing buildings on all sides, about how your hands trembled and spilled the freshly brewed cup of coffee. You said the bombs, the crying shook the windows of our home, made you curl up in fear, tightened your heart, shattered your dreams each night. You asked why I seemed not to see, even as my eyes never left the TV screen. If only you were a machine, so I wouldn’t have to hear your questions— why the gardeners in our neighborhood disappeared, why our friends split into two camps online, why some said they were glad not to have brown skin, why students in our area remind each other to always carry their papers. If only you were a machine, so I wouldn’t hear you complain between TV news reports that electricity, gas, groceries have all gone up again; so I wouldn’t have to turn off another light though my eyes grow weaker; so I’d shop closer to home and buy cheaper boxes of instant noodles. If only you were a machine, so you wouldn’t ask so many questions about literature— why I don’t have the tender poetry of Nguy?n Du when he wrote his great lament for Ki?u, why I don’t have the gentle compassion to reveal the feminine sorrow hidden in Melania’s film music. If only—no, I don’t mean robot, I don’t mean machine. It’s just that my words are clumsy, my speech falters whenever I must explain to you that this world holds little joy; that you must keep your heart steady like earth, unmoved by whatever is thrown—joy, sorrow, clean, unclean; that you must keep your heart flowing like water, embracing and carrying away all joy, sorrow, clean, unclean; that you must keep your heart warm like fire, burning equally all joy, sorrow, clean, unclean; that you must keep your heart generous like wind, never clinging, sweeping away all joy, sorrow, clean, unclean; that you must keep your heart wide like space, formless, seeing nothing as joy or sorrow, clean or unclean. So you may keep the silent virtue of mountains, so you may smile in stillness like a flower— even when your trembling hands drop and shatter the cup of coffee as the TV shows bomb-rains from a thousand miles away shaking the windows of our home. — January 2026
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