Tiếng Anh

In Winter  

The acre shines white and cold.
The sky is lonely and immense.
Jackdaws circle over the pond
And hunters climb down from the forest.
A silence dwells in black treetops.
Firelight flits from the huts.
Sometimes a sleigh rings far away
And slowly the gray moon rises.
A deer bleeds to death softly at the field's edge
And ravens splash in bloody gutters.
The reeds tremble yellow and upraised.
Frost, smoke, a step in the empty grove.

Melancholy

Bluish shadows. O you dark eyes,
That gaze long at me gliding past.
Guitar chords softly accompany autumn
In the garden, dissolved in brown lyes.

Nymph-like hands prepare
Death's serious somberness, decayed lips
Suck at red breasts and in black lyes
The sun-youth's moist curls glide.

In Autumn

Sunflowers shine near the fence,
Silently sick people sit in the sunshine.
Women strive singing in the acre,
Into which monastery bells chime.
Birds tell you a far away tale
Into which monastery bells chime.
From the courtyard the violin sounds softly.
Today they press the brown wine.
Now man appears glad and dulcet.
Today they press the brown wine.
The chambers of the dead are open wide
And beautifully painted with sunshine.

Whispered Into Afternoon

Sun of autumn, thin and shy
And fruit drops off the trees,
Blue silence fills the peace
Of a tardy afternoon’s sky.

Death knells forged of metal,
And a white beast hits the mire.
Brown lasses uncouth choir
Dies in leaves’ drifting prattle.

Brow of God dreams of hues,
Senses madness’ gentle wings.
Round the hill wield in rings
Black decay and shaded views.

Rest and wine in sunset’s gleam,
Sad guitars drizzle into night,
And to the mellow lamp inside
You turn in as in a dream.

Summer

At evening the complaint of the cuckoo
Grows still in the wood.
The grain bends its head deeper,
The red poppy.
Darkening thunder drives
Over the hill.
The old song of the cricket
Dies in the field.
The leaves of the chestnut tree
Stir no more.
Your clothes rustle
On the winding stair.
The candle gleams silently
In the dark room;
A silver hand
Puts the light out;
Windless, starless night.

Baby’s Dream

In baby's dream
the butterfly flew away;
only the sunlight stayed.
Awake from dreams baby laughed
to see the sunlight filter to the floor
through a hole in the paper window,
to touch his cheek to it,
to feel it with his hand.
Were mother, too, like child,
this world would be truly fine.

Beside a chrysanthemum

For one chrysanthemum to bloom
a nightingale
has sobbed since spring, perhaps.

For one chrysanthemum to bloom
thunder
has pealed in dark clouds, perhaps.

Flower! Like my sister standing
at her mirror, just back
from far away, far away byways of youth,
where she was racked with longing and lack:

last night's frost came down
to bid your yellow petals bloom, perhaps,
while I could not get to sleep.

Blue Days

On days dazzlingly blue
let us yearn for the beloved ones

There where autumn flowers were in full bloom,
the greenery wilts
to give way to autumnal tints.

What shall we do if it snows?
What shall we do if spring returns again?

If I die while you live?
If you die while I live?

On days dazzlingly blue
let us long for the beloved ones

The Sad Mother

Sleep, sleep, my beloved,
without worry, without fear,
although my soul does not sleep,
although I do not rest.

Sleep, sleep, and in the night
may your whispers be softer
than a leaf of grass,
or the silken fleece of lambs.

May my flesh slumber in you,
my worry, my trembling.
In you, may my eyes close
and my heart sleep.

Those Who Do Not Dance

A crippled child
Said, “How shall I dance?”
Let your heart dance
We said.

Then the invalid said:
“How shall I sing?”
Let your heart sing
We said

Then spoke the poor dead thistle,
But I, how shall I dance?”
Let your heart fly to the wind
We said.

Then God spoke from above
“How shall I descend from the blue?”
Come dance for us here in the light
We said.

All the valley is dancing
Together under the sun,
And the heart of him who joins us not
Is turned to dust, to dust.