Days of the Seasons

 By Tararith Kho

Some months, the falling rains leave the land covered—

The plants put up new shoots. Young birds hatch, and they beat their wings for happiness.

Untaught of hunger or fear, for the trees are fruiting—

And there are waters enough for all the fish to live in.

In the season of winds, the flowers call after us. And all eyes must follow.

Bees exult in the abundant pollen;

And every kind of flower is silent,

But when the bold black bee leaves a bloom, she wilts and fades.

In the hot season the land cracks open in the shimmering air.

All living things see themselves exactly in their urgency;

The trees have no leaves, and beasts and humans trace their shapes in their shadows.

Which reflect high on the land, some long, some short, some black: none can be touched.

Every separate body dream of the season that is coming, the face of which will renew happiness.

They lived their days according to one another, forgetting to shelter civilization.

Now their dreams are empty; now their hands alone can reckon—

How many happy seasons remain, if suffering has more than we can count? 

–Trans. Aisha Down