By Vanson Tran
When she comes, yellow leaves fall . . .
The familiar bands of birds say farewell to
the summer sun,
Their cheerful singing voices, on the tree
branches, seem to hold . . .
Those remind me, of my land, nostalgia,
no more fun!
Showing their early beauty, chrysanthemum,
under the evening rain, like gold . . .
Whose garden has closed? My seasonal transition
has killed me sorrowfully without a gun!
The wood trees have dropped their old as we well as young leaves away.
Immensely on the roads, and I feel cold . . .
The old road seems to have been closed and the faraway
ocean is dark in my lungs . . .
Fall is coming wonderfully, like my dream I chose,
Sitting here and listening to somebody’s reluctant
Under the gray-blue sky that spreads out a long line
having been hung . . .
Millions of unforgettable souvenirs . . . came to
my mind and frustratedly packed in my soul