The 11th Of March
The romantic
From the clouds they picked him
bled him Three times
he fell, and now sits waiting in the moonlight
as though expectant of a promise made in winter
destined to be paid with patience through a waning
age of passion The eleventh day, and only ten before
the 21st near the mouth of ancient woods
Like a pedestal
his nakedness changes him
and by the jeering hatred absent
of unenthused
dark eyes He stumbles into them
discovers they are brown
realizing there is
no quarter Feels turmoil in his knees
He is the guilty man He is
estranged
In totality
he is estranged; from youth as been
that way, a troublesome mind
frustrating the child in him
for which he dearly pays For once
his cigarette smokes itself
ashes on his own two fingers For once
he is small castrated Forgets the poet in himself
fighting hard to stay objective strong
as he is stubborn, who in silence will be saved
when she sprang ahead from seed crept
through the wood to
find him dozing at its mouth He said nothing
Then
as he woke at leisure suddenly
to find the flower of many petals
entangling round his waist and
ankles He said nothing
realizing in a way
it clothed him alight and lush, its vines
constricting slowly as he turns
finally to face her like a fear He
said ‘Talk is for salesmen’
poem by Dang Huy
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