Hoàng-Ân
METAMORPHOSIS
Sorrow transmuted into a flower
Blossoms with urgent passion of bleeding hours
Time yields only a purple veil
Clouds graying as if their power must prevail
Petals sob insistently while kissing the moist fog
The gardens fights against the forbording thoughts
To no avail, the winter storm will certainly be approaching.
The half-asleep insects refuse to sing
The dark soil dozes as the first snowflakes a-falling.
And so the flower of the dying blooms amidst the sky of dazzling whiteness
A red flower, the last flower..!!
The curtain falls for the last season's play
The church bells toll for the bereft relations' last prayers
The prefered players gasp upon the conversion of the day
Upon the new grave the last flower lies to forever
It lies to time as if its beauty can always escapes the withering
The rebelling youngs care not of wisdom
Hot blood and innocence feed the death of the moment
When the audiences of the eulogy have left.
(The rememberance for Memorial weekend 2012)
WILLIAM THOMPSON (1712-1766)
THE HAPPY LIFE
A book, a friend, a song, a glass,
A chaste, yet laughter-loving lass,
To mortals various joys impart,
Inform the sense, and warm the heart.
Thrice happy they, who careless laid
Beneath a kind-embowering shade,
With rosy wreaths their temples crown,
In rosy wine their sorrow drown.
Begone, ambition, riches, toys,
And splendid cares, and guilty joys--
Give me a book, a friend, a glass,
And a chaste, laughter-loving lass.
