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Soft hands drifting on long hair
How many dreams at this very age
Which age stands bewildered,
searching for the dry autumn wind.
Yes, eighteen was the age it left behind the mountain town—a place shrouded in wandering mist with undulating roads that mimicked the restless hearts of its people whenever winter gave way to spring. It left for the urban sprawl of Saigon, a young heart throbbing to discover new things only ever heard of or seen through a television screen or radio broadcast; a few stories kept close to the chest from friends who had traveled "downstream" to the lowlands and returned with tales. In that city, life was boisterous, people were hurried, and it held so many things that couldn't be found back home. And so, it simply went. Just like that. A young heart still bewildered by the dry autumn wind.
May your hands remain long and smooth May loneliness enter this age Which age wanders through the city with hair adorned by clouds
Then came eighteen, then past twenty. No longer loitering on school benches, it moved to sitting slumped in office chairs, only to drag its weary soul at night to a café or lose itself in music cranked to full volume amidst the sting of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Smiles—smiling at stories told later, wondering why it was so easy to laugh. Perhaps it was a way to let the mountain town stay behind, to let the city dissolve the self so that no one would linger long enough to tell the difference. A smile, a smirk—life flashed by without understanding, only seeing itself wandering through days of makeup and clothes, just to return to clothes and makeup. The innocent clouds were gone; the long hair had thinned by a few parts.
Which age feels the sudden sadness of clothes on thin shoulders Which age marks crow’s feet across the sky
Mascara. Drawing the lashes longer at the corners. The long strands are nowhere to be found; only eyes sunken deep into brown hollows are visible. A startle. The makeup no longer needs to be profound to be soulful, for what age can compensate for the loss? Loneliness. Coaxing. There is still enough "age" left for it to search for a warmth of its own. Consoling. There is still enough time for it to find a shoulder. Fingering. Dark-colored clothes, small simple patterns, vertical lines set against the heart. Caressing. A bare chest unafraid within a pair of arms full of passion. Imagining. Somewhere, there will still be an arm wrapping around it from behind. Waiting.
Oh, the sadness! For every time the early sun is still buried in sleep, the deep eyes are already awake. Makeup covers the table again, decorating a countenance to begin a new day—to begin a day of work. Not for the love of the craft; to it, that job is filled only with curses and frustrations, its chest tight with anger after every completed call. Not for the love of the task; to it, that career shows no tomorrow, only rabbit and deer faces masking the feral wolf within, calculating damages and losses, whispering to itself to survive by muttering contemptuous curses. A stolen glance. It seems you like those words of disdain. "D..." must be loud and "M..." must resonate; it sees your lips smirking. Suddenly. The earth and sky fall still.
Oh, the sadness! For every time night returns, lying beside your voice. Your face is tanned by the sun, your coughs rasped by the wind, your muscles still surging with strength. An embrace around a young breast, suddenly trembling a few times from heavy breaths. Blurred. Wet. A startle. The glass is misted over with frost. Winter has returned once more. The dream of being a "woman." Still lost in the distant fog.
Winter has returned once more. You lie there now—do you toss and turn as your arms hold a young wife, while beside you the sound of a child’s rhythmic breathing follows a bout of play? Winter has returned once more; can winter stay forever? So that the dream of being a woman is no longer lost in the distant fog.
Self-resentment. Is this love? Self-pity. Is this just the result of overthinking? Cravings. Which age stands bewildered, searching for the dry autumn wind.
I ask which age, which age is left for one another
The blue sky deep within your eyes
Clouds descend to surround the drops of sorrow
I ask which age There is only the void of heaven's age
Hands held up to hide the blurred tears.
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