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