IN THE WINTRY WIND

I am writing a poem in the wintry gale.

Where to send it to? There, can you guess?

That rosy-cheeked, the purple-scarf frail?

– No, buddy! It is about my heartfelt distress.

Cold wind blows in that place, this evening

– Homeland in swirl – constant is the rain.

With clayish ground old mom's feet cling;

Palm-leaf hat and coat by the bamboo chain.

Under the ragged thatched roof, in mire,

Smoke from humid fireplace makes her glum;

Back home, her man warms hands on the fire;

His wet coat drips from the bamboo column.

Then the lamp is lit! And the dinner served:

Always are pickles, sauce, same and again.

How life this evening is felt useless, unnerved;

Listening to the wind causes my heart to pain.

Translation by THANH-THANH