By Ho Chi Minh
A Comrade’s Paper Blanket
New books, old books,
the leaves all piled together.
A paper blanket
is better than no blanket.
You who sleep like princes,
sheltered from the cold,
Do you know how many men in prison
cannot sleep all night?
Autumn Night
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.
Clear Morning
The morning sun
shines over the prison wall,
and drives away the shadows
and miasma of hopelessness.
A life-giving breeze
blows across the earth.
A hundred imprisoned faces
smile once more.
Cold Night
Autumn night.
No mattress. No covers.
No sleep. Body and legs
huddle up and cramp.
The moon shines
on the frost-covered banana leaves.
Beyond my bars
the Great Bear swings on the Pole.
Good Days Coming
Everything changes,
the wheel of the law turns
without pause.
After the rain, good weather.
In the wink of an eye
the universe throws off
its muddy cloths.
For ten thousand miles
the landscape
spreads out like
a beautiful brocade.
Gentle sunshine.
Light breezes. Smiling flowers.
High in the trees, amongst the sparkling leaves,
all the birds sing at once.
Men and animals rise up reborn.
What could be more natural?
After sorrow comes happiness.
And one after being released from prison.
Free, I Walk on the Mountain
And Enjoy the View
Mountains. Clouds.
More mountains. More clouds.
Far below a river gleams,
bright and unspotted.
Alone, with beating heart,
I walk on the Western Range,
and gaze far off towards the South
and think of my comrades.