Poem originally written in English.
Jets crowd the sky.
The colors change. Machines.
This burden…
And faces.
Toc
Nhan
Lang
Am
(All missing.)
Hold my heart. Even without hands I can write this, paint this.
Or be turned back from the gate
and into a brown-winged bird
hunting.
What color is your hair?
Whose hand do you hold?
These hands we have.
Birds in the yellow sky.
White—under us—sailing.
And our faces change with a wish.
These wings—ours to use.
So much blue—above our heads.
We fly kites. Form circles. Sing.
Ask about the sun and where
it comes from:
From light—and the sound
of a bell ringing so long
no one remembers its name.