There was a time when I became fond of Haiku, translated by a monk on Facebook, and it inspired me to try writing a few poems myself. It was the end of the year, so I wrote about peach and apricot blossoms. I also imagined a young nun, on New Year’s Eve, while stoking fire under a pot of Bánh Chưng (traditional square sticky rice cake), translated a poem by chance. No paper nor pen, she used a stick to scribble on ashes. One poem after another, the night ended in a long, lingering love letter.
Her wise and virtuous master, sighted those verses on the ground, sighed, this disciple is still entangled in secular emotions, then clasped his beads, recited a sutra.
That morning, heavy pouring washed away all ashes, all poems. Ashes soaked into earth, carried by underground streams to the river, then glided into silt to come back to earth.
Later, a young student wandered aimlessly after skipping camp night, discovering the verses, set down in mud by a shallow riverbank. The epic poem was still incomplete, tiny streams of silt from a dry river formed each word. Being intrigued, the young man traced. Upriver he went…and went…
Upriver. Upstream. He just couldn’t go back. When he reached the ancient temple, all was in ruins, no one remained. Only a few cracked tombstones remained in the backyard.
Late at night, once again heavy pouring, he took shelter in the main hall. Leaked roof, howled wind, he recollected the strange story of the river, he couldn’t sleep. He scribbled on the ground:
“On a flying blade of grass
A small whisper
Placed into emptiness
Our story”
Then, in a half-dream, he imagined countless old tales in that ancient temple and fell asleep. When awoken, he found a continuation next to his poem:
“A dream rests in peace,
Worldly dust in rain arrives,
Touch the empty gate.”
Startled, he knelt and bowed to Buddha. No fear, only melancholy. Instead of leaving, he wandered around. Back alley was jam-packed with ferns and wild grass, with a scrawny mountain apricot tree in bloom. He gazed at falling flowers, lost in thought, then gathered ashes, drafted another poem in the main hall then buried everything under the apricot tree.
Once:
Tilled the soil, planting an apricot tree,
Now:
Tilted the earth, burying a few handfuls of ash.
Finished with the burial, he bowed and went down from the mountain, deliberately crossing the dry riverbed from the previous evening, but the poems were no longer there. He returned to camp, accepted a light rebuke, and didn’t dare to tell a soul about last night’s event. Who still believes in ghosts? He wasn’t convinced himself whether it was real or not.
Time passed, the old tales, like countless other dreams, drifted into oblivion. Only in spring, when yellow apricot is laid out at home, flowers wilted and stamens sprinkled, a touch of ash found in pollen.
Probably just incense ash.
The young man grew old, in his endless dreams of apricot pollen ashes, he got a whiff of faint apricot blossom from a quiet forest.
Old dream turned to ash,
Sun set
Dust buff,
gossamer at the door…