SHE BUILDS A VESSEL FOR THE FLOOD | Lê Vĩnh Tài [416]

sometimes the poem fall
like a leaf
and the wind pushes it around
on the ground
all over the sidewalk

don’t pick it up and show it off
like a bond coupon…
—
October 2022

1.
I am
the apples falling like tears
raw and red bruises trying to find a way out
it’s time to leave, say goodbye

I’m searching for my body
otherwise she will leave me
to drown

2.
As for you, have you built your vessel of death?

build it sturdy and surely
because you will need it

rain like the apples that will fall
no more trees no more wild mushrooms no more forest
nothing left to suck up all the water

and the smell of death lingers like the smell of ashes

since you managed to cook an evening meal
with a dying fire

you could still smell
the fear of one soul
you feel yourself shrinking, your face shrivelled up because of the cold
the wind is blowing down and through your ear canals, your mouth and any other holes
on you

3.
and will a man be able to build his own vessel of death
with the coat on his back?

Or with a dagger, guns and/or other ammunition?

people have the potential to destroy their whole life’s work
even though it’s only a vessel

Tell me, is it a vessel?
you’re quiet and you’re fading away

you’re fading away into the darkness

4.
we should discuss the idea of silence
how endearing is the silence
we hate all the talk, the guy who talks too much

But how shall this silence come about
When it’s not death?

5.
you carved out a vessel
since it will be the longest journey
before the inevitable oblivion

and death, this time is tediously and agonising
you’re choked up the way mother overfed you once upon a time

you bruise after you fall

our soul escaping
the viscous silent bruise

water as it turns out is not colourless
it’s dark and
infinite

what if this time the water shall cleanse our wound
not mere spate and deluge

the deluge within us
nowhere else

ah, remember to build your vessel of death
and a coffin full of sustenance and wine
prepare for your journey with her
into the dark

6.
you enter oblivion
even in death
as your body falls apart into pieces
and your timid soul is dragged along with the dark rising
deluge to the neck

we die, we are dying, we are all dying
not a trace of us shall be left behind

we’re pushed further and further into the dark water by the deluge of death
and it won’t be long before all shall be underwater
the world can’t escape such a cruel twist of fate

we die, we are dying, our bodies are slowly dying
and our strength is slowly deserting us

and our soul is exposed in the storm
we are hanging onto the last branches of our life
since even the forest had abandoned us for Paradise

7.
we die, we are dying, hence in whatever we do
we should be ready for death
we should build for ourselves a vessel
a carrier for our soul on the longest journey
a small vessel, full of sustenance
since our soul is always fearful of hunger

it has not the strength to depart
and for now we must allow the water to recede

so courage and faith may to the very end of us
vigorously carry our vessel through the dark

because we do not have a door or gate we may lose our way
no gate no landing, no place of departure
nothing but darkness

the flood makes not a sound
nor does it give rise to direction

and with just that small vessel, she could then disappear
So, is she gone, or is she still here?

we are nothingness

8.
and when there’s nothing left, our body
completely gone, disappeared
the darkness overhead shall be as dense as the darkness under us

we no longer breathe
and not even that is the end, it is all that will be forgotten

9.
and from eternity is the fragile thread
separating light and darkness

an illusion rising like smoke, rather highly
it’s an illusion? Or a tower of smoke
just enough time for Mother to call us all home
and wait for the sunrise

though forgotten is life the dawn returns again and again
it waits, wait still, oh small and tiny vessel
drifting, beneath the greyness of death
in a dawn drenched in pate and deluge

Oh wait, there’s Pautovsky’s spark of yellow light in the morning rain
though the soul is rather cold, a rose
rises, and there again comes pouring is the start of a new life
the scent of blood

10.
the receding flood, our fragile form
like bold rubber tires
rather slippery without much grip

the streets sinking rather strangely
on the tiny vessel coming home, we’re swaying nervously
the flooding deluge has the red hue of a wedding garment
as she weakly steps out

we enter a home
swaying again as though it has never been forgotten
remember to build your vessel of death
wait for no one, because the journey into oblivion is waiting for you
adamantly and forever waiting for you

from tonight
as the clouds pass by the dams
and our hands are tied..
—
November 2023
——