Splitting Open the Poet’s Heart
By Phan Tan Hai
Writing poems endlessly—my hands grow tired,
so I sit down to rest my feet.
White clouds return to the doorway;
we remember each other, a few tender bonds.
Dust settles upon the page,
blurring last night’s ink.
Lifting the pen, I want to weep—
the homeland’s story lies far away.
Seeing clearly the shore of birth and death,
one day I suddenly wish to lie down;
seeing, hearing the joy of stillness—
Being and Non-being both are mind.
Split open the poet’s heart—
in the Lý–Tr?n age, flowers rained from the sky.
This realm feels strangely distant,
mountains and rivers cold along the far road.
— For the birthday of poet Nguyen Luong Vy
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