Please Remember for Me
By Phan Tan Hai
The path you take home feels strange—
in your eyes, the road stretches far;
summer’s crickets calling,
stirring flowers across the miles.
In the trembling heart of our homeland,
send him a single message:
beloved, a hundred ants,
a thousand birds remember you.
Walk softly, very softly;
listen for the soul of the old town.
Clouds drift toward the farthest edge,
following a stunned and silent sutra.
When you pass the empty landing,
ask the old ferry for me—
did it drift with the white clouds,
carrying sunlight through the noonday hours?
Crossing that narrow stream,
look for me along the riverbank:
is the old reflection still submerged,
or has it floated off with impermanence?
White clouds cling to your hair,
cold as the springtime of youth;
the ferryman from last year
has drifted away like a dream.
Fragrance travels a hundred ways—
please light a stick of incense for me,
send it beyond the mountain ridge:
the scent of wisdom, the scent of the Four Debts.
I hear the doorless door—
the first lesson my teacher gave:
Nirvana has no direction,
where then do we place our steps?
His words I still remember:
there is no path to follow,
no Dharma to hold on to—
and instantly, you cross to the other shore.
A bird in flight is a mind-image;
its cry is also mind.
Impermanence sounds so cold.
— January, 2017
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