There still is the fire in the funeral pyre of father in a dark corner of the jungle Continue reading →

Starting from the sadness of clouds
from the loss of heart
from the perfidy of words Continue reading →

The peasants emerge from the salted fields
flow from the dry sandy hills Continue reading →

There are poems never written
It’s not the poem I don’t want to write. Continue reading →

I
Many friends have chastised me for wasting time on the Champa language
how many can read it? Who will remember it?
but I want to squander my entire life serving it
even if there’re only half a dozen people
even if there’s only one
or no one! Continue reading →

She oversleeps in the kalpa of stone
Born from the artists’s hands Continue reading →

The deserted tower
Seems to grow suddenly from the earth
Hairy – gloomy – threatening. Continue reading →

For hundreds of years the tower has been standing
The ocean on the other and the sands on this side
For thousands of generations the tower has been sunlighted
On the deserted hills
like a pause
on show. Continue reading →

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. Continue reading →