Folk Poetry: Ca Dao

The Colonial Troops Transport

The troops ship whistles once; I still waver.
Whistles twice, and I step down into the boat.
Three times, and the transport pushes north.
I grip the iron rail as tears stream forth,
and ask the helmsman for a rag for my tears.
Now the husband is North; the wife, South.

The Pole at the Village Pagoda

A lantern sways from the Banner Pole,
the East wind rattles its panes.
My love for you is deep aching, endless.
In the tipped dish, I grind ink for a poem:
a poem…three or four, saying
Wait for. Hope for. Remember Love.