Our returning bus carries a poet,
Asked to extemporize, he's tried hard in vain.
Yet, among the urban place, he stands,
As a famous one whose style is Viet Chau.
Though he's used to sentimentally compose,
He has not guided the masses through the disaster.
The chanting voice is so somber,
As to drive his reader whirling in ecstasy.
Last few days, he's kept Mercy's company,
Has he cleansed that lay mind?
While the ground shakes and billows rise,
The poet looks at the monk fending.
The monastic resolves to close his building,
With a sword, on horseback, he charges.
After having paid off his loyal part,
He returns and recites Amida.
Then, he meditates to effect emptiness,
And dusts himself off mundaneness.
The divine bell of cosmopolitanism resounds,
All over, being and non-being have no bounds.
The station siren has honked at Saigon Stop,
Together the door opened, and we get off.
Summer's Working Farm campaign is over…
On the way back to Saigon,
June of Rooster (1945)
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