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, I’ve been imprisoned a year,
Old now, I use tears to write prison verses.

From Ho Chi Minh’s Prison Diary.
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