Living In Reverse

I live in a town where all things go in reverse. The bushes grow reversely, shrink smaller back into seeds, and roll back into the past-life seeds. The river flows reversely, very swiftly. My friends, my nephews and nieces, my siblings, and my parents walk reversely, and steadily become smaller, younger. Helplessly, I stand, watch, and cannot grasp things back. The brains think reversely into the prehistory; the handwritten pages decrease, turning reversely for never being lost. The ruined house of the neighbor girl is built reversely, becoming back the house of her young days. The voices, familiar and unknown, talk reversely into the afternoons and noons and nights, calling up the wronged ghost of a priest whose enlightened shout wakes up the legendary copperhead, which slithers and crushes a corner of the forest. A tornado blows reversely, peels away the layer of sedimentary rocks, and shows thousands of ancient cities, where millions of bricks become new again to build countless clusters of towers, and where the waving hands, smiling lips, colorful clothes, villages, crow’s cries, and flocks of birds fly reversely into the sunshine arc. I solely stand, lonely. Translated into English by Phan Tan Hai Original poem titled "Song Lui" -- written in Vietnamese by Inrasara.