Tracing Ancient Pages
By Phan Tan Hai
At midnight I trace the ancient pages,
golden dust of centuries settling thick—
hearing echoes of brushes, swords, and ink
returning to rattle open a full-moon festival.
Summoning old spirits drifting in the wind,
the Master searches, translating page by page;
comparing characters, the long night shortens,
copying lines of poetry vast as the sea.
I hear the old zither strings break into tears,
soldiers urging horses, their cries ringing out.
The Master records the soul of ink and paper,
his beard and hair dyed white by a thousand clouds.
---- Respectfully dedicated to Professor Nguyen Van Sam
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