Poems

A hundred years­­­—in this life span on earth

talent and destiny are apt to feud.

You must go through a play of ebb and flow*

and watch such things as make you sick at heart.

Is it so strange that losses balance gains?* 5

Blue Heaven's wont to strike arose from spite.*



By lamplight turn these scented leaves and read

a tale of love recorded in old books.

Under the Chia-ching reign when Ming held sway,*

all lived at peace—both capitals stood strong.* 10

There was a burgher in the clan of Vuong,*

a man of modest wealth and middle rank.

He had a last‑born son, Vuong Quan—his hope*

to carry on a line of learned folk.

Two daughters, beauties both, had come before: 15

Thuy Kieu was oldest, younger was Thuy Van.*

Bodies like slim plum branches, snow‑pure souls:

each her own self, each perfect in her way.

In quiet grace Van was beyond compare:

her face a moon, her eyebrows two full curves; 20

her smile a flower, her voice the song of jade;

her hair the sheen of clouds, her skin white snow.

Yet Kieu possessed a keener, deeper charm,

surpassing Van in talents and in looks.

Her eyes were autumn streams, her brows spring hills. 25

Flowers grudged her glamour, willows her fresh hue.

A glance or two from her, and kingdoms rocked!

Supreme in looks, she had few peers in gifts.

By Heaven blessed with wit, she knew all skills:

she could write verse and paint, could sing and chant. 30

Of music she had mastered all five tones*

and played the lute far better than Ai Chang.*

She had composed a song called Cruel Fate*

to mourn all women in soul‑rending strains.

A paragon of grace for womanhood,* 35

she neared that time when maidens pinned their hair.*

She calmly lived behind drawn shades and drapes,

as wooers swarmed, unheeded, by the wall.*