By Nguyễn Văn Thiện, translation by Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm
Is there anything colder than the winter chill? Is there anything colder than snow? It is colder and colder towards the end of winter. But nothing compares to the frightening lingering chill of lost hope. Our lives have fallen into the hand of destiny, figuratively speaking, we are like sheep shepherd by an old senile ruffian. Seasons after seasons, year after year, then again, how much time do we have?
The recurrent dreams of blood spattered on the snow. The dreams of being alone with fire in our eyes. To wake up, forget, and continue with the long sigh.
We all want a fire to keep us warm out there in a thunderous stormy world, but we’re bashful and afraid, dare not self-ignite, so, where can we find such heat to warm our hearts?
In the mead, when…
View original post 1,600 more words