The One Standing at the Margin
By Phan Tan Hai
Turning back, glancing sideways, stepping in, being
pushed out. A waterfall of bodies shoving,
crowds surging forward, lines of frightened people
pulling one another—walking, running, leaping,
waves of people trampling over each other,
flowing like rapids, like rivers—no time
to look ahead, no time to look beside,
no time to look beneath their feet; someone
presses from behind, someone urges from
the front, shouting. I stand at the margin
watching, amid hailstorms hurled across,
storms of curses flying through the sky,
across the streets, across forests and mountains,
across winding paths, across layered valleys—
no way out. No way out, I search
for you, pensive, blurred, waiting,
no way out, in clouds that gather and break.
Please look back toward the margin, where
those with no place left on earth stand,
where I hold out my hand, palm up,
asking for blessing; then turn it down
to keep a little warmth, shivering. Hurry,
hurry a little more, before the human
torrent sweeps you away, and then one day
we will close our eyes and remember the
moment we ran beyond the boundary—hurry,
just a little, before the clouds
scatter. I return to sit and weep, bent
over, writing lines of poetry on paper,
on the wooden beam beside the bridge,
on the square brick of the sidewalk,
on the window glass before my house, hoping
dimly that one day the human torrent
will push you back, and you will find
my words strung across the sky, across
the streets, across forests and mountains,
across winding paths, across layered valleys—
no way out—and I sit among
mountains of words, mountains of words,
mountains of words. But it is late:
the page once held by someone has been torn,
the wooden beam by the bridge has broken,
the brick has cracked, and I am here
picking up each shard of shattered glass,
piecing together each fragment, each broken
word—and you, my original, innocent soul,
where are you, where are you.
I am standing at the margin, at the margin…
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