Danang — Spring MCMLXXV
Our archers are combing out their beautiful shoulder-length white hair.
No.
Our fusiliers are combing out their long hair in the moon's light.
No.
Midnight approaches, moonlight spreads over the camp, our halberdiers comb out their beautiful white hair.
No.
The fires die, shadows shorten, our grenadiers comb out their long white hair.
No.
Lancers laugh, the last fire reflected from the silver fillings in their long white teeth as they comb out their beautiful hair.
No.
Our bombardiers move in the dark and in the moon's secondhand light, combing their white hair.
No.
The personnel of our army are not old enough to have to comb long white hair.
Their hair is neither long nor white.
It is something I have seen in dreams only,
A vision of Mediterranean harquebusiers combing out long beautiful white hair by the light of a full moon
On the eve of a great historic battle.
No.
Not in dreams but only in museums have I seen the archaic weaponry.
Moonlight in a museum will slide pieces of whiteness along the edges of halberds and arrowheads,
Each old edge like a long old white hair, shining.
No, that too is wrong.
What I see is what I see in books,
Their rows of black words nothing like white hair,
The record of the war I was in
Nothing like the archival history of dragoons.
I battled bedbugs in a twice-named city, which now they say has fallen to the enemy on the news,
The rows of black words nothing like white hair
Looking more or less unreal under moonlight in the dead center of the dreamed night.
Our archers are combing out their beautiful shoulder-length white hair.
No.
Our fusiliers are combing out their long hair in the moon's light.
No.
Midnight approaches, moonlight spreads over the camp, our halberdiers comb out their beautiful white hair.
No.
The fires die, shadows shorten, our grenadiers comb out their long white hair.
No.
Lancers laugh, the last fire reflected from the silver fillings in their long white teeth as they comb out their beautiful hair.
No.
Our bombardiers move in the dark and in the moon's secondhand light, combing their white hair.
No.
The personnel of our army are not old enough to have to comb long white hair.
Their hair is neither long nor white.
It is something I have seen in dreams only,
A vision of Mediterranean harquebusiers combing out long beautiful white hair by the light of a full moon
On the eve of a great historic battle.
No.
Not in dreams but only in museums have I seen the archaic weaponry.
Moonlight in a museum will slide pieces of whiteness along the edges of halberds and arrowheads,
Each old edge like a long old white hair, shining.
No, that too is wrong.
What I see is what I see in books,
Their rows of black words nothing like white hair,
The record of the war I was in
Nothing like the archival history of dragoons.
I battled bedbugs in a twice-named city, which now they say has fallen to the enemy on the news,
The rows of black words nothing like white hair
Looking more or less unreal under moonlight in the dead center of the dreamed night.
No.
Our fusiliers are combing out their long hair in the moon's light.
No.
Midnight approaches, moonlight spreads over the camp, our halberdiers comb out their beautiful white hair.
No.
The fires die, shadows shorten, our grenadiers comb out their long white hair.
No.
Lancers laugh, the last fire reflected from the silver fillings in their long white teeth as they comb out their beautiful hair.
No.
Our bombardiers move in the dark and in the moon's secondhand light, combing their white hair.
No.
The personnel of our army are not old enough to have to comb long white hair.
Their hair is neither long nor white.
It is something I have seen in dreams only,
A vision of Mediterranean harquebusiers combing out long beautiful white hair by the light of a full moon
On the eve of a great historic battle.
No.
Not in dreams but only in museums have I seen the archaic weaponry.
Moonlight in a museum will slide pieces of whiteness along the edges of halberds and arrowheads,
Each old edge like a long old white hair, shining.
No, that too is wrong.
What I see is what I see in books,
Their rows of black words nothing like white hair,
The record of the war I was in
Nothing like the archival history of dragoons.
I battled bedbugs in a twice-named city, which now they say has fallen to the enemy on the news,
The rows of black words nothing like white hair
Looking more or less unreal under moonlight in the dead center of the dreamed night.
Our archers are combing out their beautiful shoulder-length white hair.
No.
Our fusiliers are combing out their long hair in the moon's light.
No.
Midnight approaches, moonlight spreads over the camp, our halberdiers comb out their beautiful white hair.
No.
The fires die, shadows shorten, our grenadiers comb out their long white hair.
No.
Lancers laugh, the last fire reflected from the silver fillings in their long white teeth as they comb out their beautiful hair.
No.
Our bombardiers move in the dark and in the moon's secondhand light, combing their white hair.
No.
The personnel of our army are not old enough to have to comb long white hair.
Their hair is neither long nor white.
It is something I have seen in dreams only,
A vision of Mediterranean harquebusiers combing out long beautiful white hair by the light of a full moon
On the eve of a great historic battle.
No.
Not in dreams but only in museums have I seen the archaic weaponry.
Moonlight in a museum will slide pieces of whiteness along the edges of halberds and arrowheads,
Each old edge like a long old white hair, shining.
No, that too is wrong.
What I see is what I see in books,
Their rows of black words nothing like white hair,
The record of the war I was in
Nothing like the archival history of dragoons.
I battled bedbugs in a twice-named city, which now they say has fallen to the enemy on the news,
The rows of black words nothing like white hair
Looking more or less unreal under moonlight in the dead center of the dreamed night.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.