If Neruda asks
This cloudy question
He is a poet, undisputed
A noble master of letters
When these words pass through
A Zen abbot’s lips
We hear a cryptic koan, impossible
A riddle to defy attachment
If lustrous Hồ Xuân Hương idly toys
With this conundrum upon
Her pliant ink-stained lap, inscrutable
She becomes an oral tradition
For romantic schoolboys in old Saigon
Should I dare repeat
Any of this aloud while still alive,
I am a fool to be buried in the cold grooves
Of Saint Cloud.
Now, how fair is that?
From BARROW, 2009
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