By Tararith Kho
Coconut town in the Romeah Haik District—
Inheritance from a mother, kept to be given—
A house and land, a storehouse with rice—
For days ahead, for sons and grandsons.
The shoots we sowed
are getting tall.
In the fields you can see the grains we scattered.
The coconut palms pierce the green grass.
No one is there to hear the cry,
The sound of our sorrow: All that has a memory should wail.
The land is unchanging, but its owners are sick.
Their flesh is persecuted,
And the new shoots sprouting erase their names.
From this coconut town, Cambodian town, ever-changing town:
In 1992, this Vietnamese town.
- Trans. Aisha Down
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