Where the petals gather many tears,

Where mist shadow is gently shaking the guzheng’s rhythm,

The wind flows through slender fingers, sobbing,

Ask the morning if the spring of the past,

Being present and filling with so many voices and scents,

How to cover, how to forget,

When the sky drags the earth along.

Strum up, strum up, the strings are tight  ,

The past – present – future are transmigration in each refrain,

The meeting place is a farewell place too,

The paths we hurriedly past away,

Looking at ourselves in our past mirror,

The guzheng sound rushes like rain pouring on our chest,

The leaf has just fallen, tearing a heart stem.

How can we take refuge when everywhere is ourselves’ fragmentation?

Fingernails dig into guzheng strings, aching the flesh of previous life,

Tears of roses flow,

Red tears of distilled fragrance.

There are no more farmers picking flowers in the morning,

The flowers flown away, the petals disintegrated already,

The scent has all dissipated, the earth misses,

Who sits playing guzheng like a mist.

….

(Self-translation from VIETNAMESE)

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