Playing Guzheng in Rose Garden — POEM 𝒃𝒚 Nguyễn Thị Thùy Linh
Playing Guzheng in Rose Garden
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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)
v
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Playing Guzheng in Rose Garden
To read all posts of Nguyễn Thị Thùy Linh, Please click here
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)
v
Please visit the Face Book, Instagram, Twitter, Pinterest, and Linkedin to follow us on these social media networks — by clicking the relevant icon — to see (and to share with others by you) that how we are promoting and making efforts to give a worldwide reach to the best pieces of fiction and poetry, and other things like APPRAISE of the published elegant works in 𝘛𝘩𝘦 ᒪIᑎGO ᒪE᙭IᑕOᑎ and views of the legendries of various languages as THE LEGENDARY TALKS through interviews by the expert interviewers. We also welcome your (the contributors’) and the readers’ precious, prestigious and valuable comments in the Comments Section given at the bottom of this page.
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