Every year, when cherry blossoms bloom,

I see the old literary gentleman again,

arranging Chinese ink and red paper

by the crowded sidewalk.

So many hire him to write, 

and praise highly his talent:

“Gifted hand penning strokes,

like a phoenix dancing, a dragon flying.

But every year, it becomes quieter.

Where are those who used to hire the writer?

The red paper not as vibrant,

the ink stagnant in the ink bowl.

The old gentleman still sits there.

No one notices him as they cross the street.

Yellow leaves fall on the paper.

Outside, a light drizzle.

This year, cherry blossoms bloom again.

But the old gentleman is nowhere to be seen.

Those from countless years past,

where do their souls reside now?

by Vũ Đình Liên

English translation by Vuong Thanh, 12.2023