I am
A child of the wind wandering on the fields of the narrow Central Region
A child of the fiery sun all four seasons over dry white sands
A child of the large ocean with roaring waves after tidal waves
And of the pale sleepless eyes of the tower of Champa.

Mother feeds me with the milk of sad folksongs
Father feeds me with the sinewy arms of Glang Anak
Grandpa feeds me with the foggy moon of legends
The plei feeds me with the shadows of kites, the souls of crickets, and the sounds of buffalo-bells.

Growing up
I hit my head against the war
I struggled with my head against rice and clothing, existentialism, phenomenology
I was tossed in the flow of wild language
Then was drowned in the valley of your love.

I dropped the world and losed my self
I losed the dance of dwa buk, the lines of ariya, and the bush of chilli peppers
With my blind heart
I became a discarded person
Falling in the middle of a defoliated forest.

Then I raised my head and climbed up
Then I stretched myself from the pit of the past
Like a wounded person searching for an exit from the ruins of the city
I looked for my self and I found the sunlight of my native land.

Again I turn green – even if the forest was burned
Again I flow quietly – even if the river was dead
Again dry the sand – again sad the lullaby
Again graceful you – again deserted the tower
The distant voice of Mother is soothing as an everlasting lullaby.

Translated by Nguyen Tien Van