THE FLOOD
The
water-lily stalks stretch along the stream;
The
poles are also long to punt the boat.
The
yellow cork flowers rock with the waves;
You
are anxious on your way home to float.
Your
return there during the flood, who knows?
How
could I then find that river shore?
The
tide rises up to overspread distress,
Making
humans wade across it bearing bore.
Your
house faces the swallows’ cave,
Waiting
in the evening for people out of sight.
A tardy egret, looking for a perching space,
Discovers
only water, clouds, and twilight.
Birds
have to quit the plains for the forest;
Ants
gather in swarms to build nests at height.
You
shall reposition your old bamboo bed,
Lying
on it to hear the waves rustle all night.
My
upstream boat leaves the deserted bank;
The
northeasterly wind hurries a piercing cold.
There
is tonight this guy out here in the frost,
Yearning
for a safe place back in a household.
Vietnamese poem by PHẠM HỒNG ĐẬM