To be a poet is to be lulled by the wind, To follow the moon in dreams, and drift with the clouds. - Xuan Dieu

At break of day I feel as if I'm clasping a bouquet of smiling flowers
But the wind of time does not cease blowing
And the hours wilt like falling petals.

I am a bird from mountains you don't know.
My throat feels itchy—so I start to chirp
when sings the morning wind among the leaves,
when dreams the moon at midnight in the blue.
Perched on a branch, the bird longs for its brook—
it will break into song and not know why.
Its ditties cannot make the fruits grow ripe;
its carols cannot help the flowers bloom.
It's profitless to sing, and yet the bird
will burst its throat and heart to sing its best.

But alas, I'm going to die!
I'm a chap who...clings to life with the fingernails of both hands.
One who drinks of love till it overflows his lips,
But alas, I'm going to die...
The other night I sat alone in agony,
Listening to the hours pass, wracked with sorrow...
I have arrived to face the cold border of nihility.