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Ông Bà


Because I do not know you, and I cannot see you

I want to ask a million questions

and hear a million stories…

How was your childhood?

Do you forgive your homeland?

What were your aspirations before war?

on Sundays,

my palms exude sweat from my firmly clasped hands

I compress my eyes and pray a little harder

to summon you

You never answer me.

For you, I hopelessly cling

to my belief in the supernatural.

Perhaps one day,

your apparition will appear

before my poor eyes

and tell me all I wish to know.

Can you hear my thoughts?

Or should I ask you out loud?

I am a story that begins in the middle,

a jigsaw with a thou