He is gone like the Fish of freshwater
His dreamy painting is gone like the Sojourn of the
. . . Sojourner
Who displays his order and declines
On the mode of the Double Reverse
I have nothing to tell him Save maybe
That the poem of the Painting
gets on perfectly with the Painting of the Poem
As the Queen of the Almas
Is named as well as the Alma of the Queens
That the Return of the Convalescent who sings her joy
Has delighted immensely the Child of the Riparians
On the brim of the Abyss of the Abysses
You have nothing to tell him Save maybe
That the clearing of Being is to him favorable
Like the Scartch of Time is him favorising
When the Earth happens to emerge
While a World opens
We have nothing to tell him Save maybe
That at the eve of the roughest transformation of the
. . . terrestrial site
That at the eve of a Night for a new Morning
The Aurora of a wholly different age of the world
Signalled to him exclusively maybe
Since he is the Painter of the Painters
And since in the Garden of the nihilist Twilight
We are as for us
The latest of the latest fruits
He is gone like the Fish of freshwater
His painting is gone like the Dream of the Dreams
He is gone vanishing like the latest birds
That sensing a new Time of March
Leave this shore for another shore
Bui Giang
Saigon October 72