To the Poet Bui Giang
By Phan Tan Hai
Purple myrtle forests, a wild mountain girl;
you, a wanderer of dust, your poems faint and wind-blown.
A lifetime lost in the city’s maze,
offering morning sunlight and evening rain.
Your poetry—fog of forgotten provinces—
danced wildly in the bright dream-sun.
Your laughter hid the teachings of the Buddha;
you lifted a flower and questioned the moon and stars.
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