On the high hill

by Nguyen Binh Phuong

Translated by Hoang Trang Hai

Don’t remind me
of tight streams of bullets
collapsed bunkers, smashed pieces
hurling, dashing in all directions
everyone has come to rest
they are listening to the children’s noises along the alluvial bank
as on many afternoons, the sun falls hurriedly
it is the faraway afternoon sunlight, easy river Quay

Don’t remind me of the burning bayonets
wounds that have been brought back to this world
don’t make too much of incense and smoke or they’ll be confused
peace does not require the shadow of the Bodhi
they are Bodhi tree, immense and ageless
cold tombstones could not hold them
cast sandal,
bare head
AK in hand
mouth like fire
hair like fire
countenance hovering like fire
remember the young woman friend who cried in the rain

Don’t remind me, please, don’t remind me
they return
on the high hill
in the moon
wave after wave yet alone
grave with grave with grave with grave.