Not a rose bud Not the morning dew It’s not a dream that just woke up I knew the most fragile thing It’s love It’s love, baby! Love Just in the morning, the sun is shining Overcast the intense afternoon rain We were just running around looking for each other… I just hit you… … Like a storm coming It was like a wave hitting the shore, the wave went back to the sea. It’s not me – it’s not heaven Not a sunset cloud Suddenly pink… suddenly purple… I hold love like a child holds a crystal cup Slightly awkward is… that’s all… disappear. *** I pray – not now And when the hair is gray When the hair is gray When I’ve gone through the storm – storm – sea – shore Still leaning on my shoulder A love that is not lost… Comments When realizing the fragility of love, love is no longer there. Maybe, only in nostalgia, dream or regret. The more years go by, the more people feel the strange fragility of love. What’s as great as love? What is more fragile than love? Poem Going through the years Do Trung Quan’s is built on two lines of emotions and thoughts. One side is the fragility of love, more than the sky, the morning dew. One side is the desire (not now) for a love that is “not lost” when we go through the storms – storms – sea – shore. Poetry lies in the rhythm with a bit of play, melancholy and contemplative tone of someone who must have seen love disappearing through his age a couple of times. However, the most poetic part lies at the intersection of those two emotional lines. It is a shade of anxiety mixed with dream and hope.

But lotus has not come yet Outside the door frame A heavenly sky with March. *** Single pomegranate blooms hastily in front of the porch A red dot like just ripe love Who knit Lady Bang’s shirt For winter to be paused Just a little Sweet enough to be cold. *** My mother sat and prayed for the pond How familiar it sounded so loud I love past March days ago Thin tuber potato slices of cassava instead of rice. *** My sister now dressed better Sparkling eyes, radiant smile You are not like the old buffalo cutting grass The first is a muddy foot in the afternoon sun. *** Mother happy excess white rice in March Girls’ rice is fragrant Mom made the cake float Mom makes a cake Respectfully dedicate to the ancestors. *** The older the name can not be called Raised sails young boys Even if you go in all directions I still want to be like a childhood Back home with mom Sweeping into the kitchen smoke in March. Comment by Dr. Nguyen Thanh Tam Nguyen Thi Dao Tinh’s poem is entwined and close as a familiar memory from May in her mother’s house. March reminds me of the grief. Love is just ripe, a little cold sweet, the child’s eyes sparkle, the scent of rice, the more girls and the old ones raise their children … a moment of coming back to play with in the last season outside the door frame. The young man sails will go away, but perhaps in the tension of the new wind, the old loves still ceaselessly comforting, nurturing, the Four poems formed in the moment we realize a nostalgia in the spring and summer sky. tenderness. March song beckoning me back.