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