Ho Chi Minh
Before the gate, a guard
with a rifle on his shoulder.
In the sky, the moon flees
through clouds.
Swarming bed bugs,
like black army tanks in the night.
Squadrons of mosquitoes,
like waves of attacking planes.
I think of my homeland.
I dream I can fly far away.
I dream I wander trapped
in webs of sorrow.
A year has come to an end here.
What crime did I commit?
In tears I write
another prison poem.
Translated by Kenneth Rexroth
