← RESISTANCE POETRY WALL -100 THOUSAND POETS FOR CHANGE
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IT IS PROBABLY LOVE
Poet: DƯƠNG HOÀNG HỮU ( Vietnam )
Translator /Poet : Abahn Leth
Waves may carry away all dream to the sea
The sea may smash and bury all hope easily
Wind may break up trees to fall down
Sunshine may make ricefields turn yellow-brown
But those things may be in a fancy
If our love was the waste soil sandy or muddy
It would be the place for burying with intention
For becoming immortal person devoted to defend his country.
You often think any love will be broken
As the sunset behind hills will die out all in a sudden
As a shooting star is alone and sullen in the dark night
And the earth still leads a solitary life in sight.
With a little of dream I live for some desire and hope
Don’t forget : it ‘s hard to keep an eagle tight enough
In the prison cell while it’s longing for the blue sky
From the fire of dust and ashes it revives
You keep my love like a marble in your pocket
But I hide your eyes in my soul already set
Our love doesn’t the last one, more or less
When voluntarily cremating all countless sadness
You’ve even told yourself sadness is light…!
Poet: DƯƠNG HOÀNG HỮU ( vIETNAM )
SONG TO THE RUINS OF AMERICA
With the Glyn Ford’ eyes:
“Fascist Europe-The Rise of Racism and Xenophobia”
I see with horror how from an american country to another
Racism and Xenophobia are cultivated in ist fields
Inspecting the growth of fascism and its relationship
With the capitalist families’ domain
As Daniel Guerin saw in his “Fascism and Big Busines”
When Fascism was flourishing in Germany and Italy
Cities and fields returns to watering the river Biederitz
Feeder of the river Elba
That brings the Hitler and Eve’s cremated and crushed remains
Together with others of theirs on the studio couch
Where they were found suicided
Perhaps the same couch of love where Neville Chamberlain
the British Prime Minister was sat.
River that joins and, at the end, matchs to the river Potomac
In Chesapeake Bay, Atlantic Ocean
Rested in backwater of the White House’ pool
Built in its foundations and frames
by slaves and Irish and Italian workers without papers
that tomorrow will come to call “Trumpbunker”.
He’ll walk in the middle of the garden
Arrogant his figure as a God with joke eyes, body to much he-man
And penisly classic figure
whose Te Deum will be of the Asses and the Marquis of Sade.
Heil¡ He’s the “Uro of Heck” big, robust, with long horns
a brown copper hair, with skin of a certain form
with fierce behaviour.
Heil¡ He’s the new Thartac, God of the Hivites with Ass-headed
well known and loved by priests and parish priest.
Nor the snow neither the wind will lash, that they believe
The angry figure of this God-man who loves life
As a desolated tyrant with dizziness of sex just nasty
running towards the void of a great National and Global Zoo
upon which will erect a statue to the Ass
to which will come the souls of the Eve’s terrier breed scottish dogs
and the Hitler’ German Shepherd Dog with her cubs
to piss lifting up its leg.
And Fabius will sing near the doors of the White House
The new “Trumpbunker”
the Rodrigo Caro’s paraphrased song to the Ruins of Italica:
“These, Trump, poor me¡ that you see now
Lonely fields, gloomy hill
Were a time great America”.
Because the crime, the evil, the cruel and bloody
Assembly of wars against another peoples and nations
Ever returns, sooner or later, against one and another.
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