|Autumn Night |
The guard with his rifle stands by the gate,
Above, tattered clouds skirt the moon;
The bedbugs in disarray swarm like tanks,
Mosquitoes assembled in formation dive like airplanes;
My heart longs for my native land far away,
Dreams of longing intertwine with sorrow in a skein with ten thousand threads;
Innocent, Ive been imprisoned a year,
Old now, I use tears to write prison verses.
From Ho Chi Minhs Prison Diary.