Phượng
She was moving to the drum beats,
The sound of central highland native 1.Torung,
Synchronous voices of people’s chanting
Of songs of love and songs of prosperous harvests,
Of luck and great prospects of the new year ahead
She danced with a group of people
Whose movements were perfectly choreographed
Easily and nimbly they moved around the floor
Rhythmically without missing a beat
She moved gracefully, well in sync,
As her dark hair danced about her face and shoulders
As her lips smiled a blossoming rose.
Her deep, dark eyes glanced ever so briefly at me,
As though to ask if I enjoyed the show.
She threw her hips as she came up the floor
Her exotic native garments flung to show
A bit of hips, a bit of abs as white as flower
Her jewelries rang in rhythm of her movements;
Harmoniously they sang with the drums.
She danced and danced like Cleopatra triumphantly entering Rome,
Where heads would bow as though welcoming her home,
Where her companions were just a side show,
A background that accentuated
The glory, the triumph of a conquering queen
She danced, and danced away.
She still dances in my head.
She’s danced away in my heart!
02-2003
