Translated from the Vietnamese by Alec G. Schachner (in The Purification Festival in April,
third edition)

Sunshine begins to warm the hills of April
starting earlier than many centuries past
when the ocean had yet to awake
earlier than all the memory of the elder ceremony priests.

Earlier. The sun opened its warming rays
bright astride the ka-ing dancing master’s rattan rod
rousing the baranung drums still lying dust-covered in the attic
stirring awake the crows of a pair of roosters waiting through the last night before
their sacrificial offering.
Faster. I see the sun breaking
athwart the footsteps of the shaman hurrying down the hill
even faster. I see the sunlight spilling across
no time for the dewdrops to linger in sleep
sunshine encircling the hair of a crowd of girls headed down to the river to get water, the columns of trees, the flat landscape, the multicolored garments, the sweeping calls to return to the village
to build the ceremonial kajang
the sunlight falls catching at the folds of the old dancer’s mutham scarf
flying across 365 days coated in the impurity of this world.

The purification festival is beginning.

On this same day this same month for everlasting millennia past
the same anxieties, infatuations, this uneasy waiting
only the repetition is present
the same sacred texts, hymns of worship are unfurled.

Fire blazes red
red pomegranate flowers bought at yesterday’s market red Royal Poinciana flowers freshly plucked red summer sun
red garb red He
fire burned red into the labyrinthine skeins of every waiting soul
candles lit aflame many sticks alight glinting in the midday
before the door of the kajang there – fire blazes red.

He sees
He raises his rod up high/ high above the old centuries
He flogs two feet/ two feet taciturn since the dynasty past
feet that for 365 days only know to follow the plow’s furrows
feet that yesterday danced sluggishly to the rhythms of Cei Dalim, Cei Tathun
feet hardened by acidity.

The Purification Festival is beginning
sound of the rite-master’s chants rumbling devotion the beating baranung booms
still not yet enough – the scriptural orisons recited
not enough for His contentment.

Our storehouse is brimming with words – words worn and dull
full of words/ still not a single phoneme to praise delight
one word strives to soar up level atop the flames’ shoulders
level atop the purification festival.

No more words to name. He roars out. The words fold their wings and slip away
only his roar floods the empty world
A… U… M…
He roars out
his roar echoes to a buffalo herd grazing on a faraway hill straining to listen
wronged ghosts forgotten for a thousand years sit up from ashes and coals
flocks of birds startled rise up circling hastily and returning
as if afraid of vying lost within the wellspring of joyous purgation.

AUM…
He has seen
the door of the heavens open like the embrace of his wife of previous lifetimes open
the fleets of monsoon clouds returning like a lock of his future son’s hair flying back
He spreads His arms
He steps forward, treading to match the mud-drenched feet of yesterdays
heedless the fires crackling along with the sounds of hands clapping ahei crackling
heedless of the ginang drums beating urgently pursuing chasing off fear
He transforms into fire He dances with fire He is fire
clean the final time, clean numberless thousands of more times
for the world a single time cleaned. Such it is.

Swift. Swifter
smoke rises into clouds, human faces flock through clouds, hair a thousand strands of cloud, all space dimly pillared into titanic columns of rainclouds.
they are crumbling, crashing apart and about to toss down floods of rain.

The purification festival in April has ruptured. He feels
the earth fracture, sound of the eulogies
shattering the jubilation of anticipating secrets hidden deep.

Life no longer hesitates, no more wavering
swift, swifter
but slow too slow as if no possible way to be slower. He feels
the language of the hymns spill into millions of millions of cells living or dead
overflow and stir them awake never to let them sleep again
all the millions and millions of sprouts are stretching their shoulders to raise their heads.

Steps stomping more sturdily. I see – more firmly
the world fragmented and rejoined by an urgent breath
the fire at its last gasp.

He is cast out freed from the flames – his body covered with wounds
all the world wounded – only the smile untouched the bliss untouched
millions of millions of water drops fly down to extinguish a surviving spark straining to flicker one last time
extinguish misery, hopelessness on the faces. I see.

On the far side of elation
Resiliance untouched they begin to take root once again.

Bis bis wok wok
once more people move
once more once more life moves.