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The Lonely Pass

The sun was setting as I struggled Up here to the Lonely Pass Where, for a grip between bare rock, Stunt trees and ragged grass Struggle with the same dry fierceness As, between their dry Leaves, the few small flowers strain For a smidgin of the sky.

Listening to the nightjars call, I think I understand The sadness in all exiles, That need for a native land Which, all around me, francolins Repeatedly insist In voices tired with homelessness Must, known or not, exist.

I stand here halted. Suddenly These things at which I stare, Sky and mountain, once so loved, Are seen as solely there As images on whose half-truths I need no more rely.

My native land is loneliness, My only need is I.

Nyugen Thi Hihn, the Lady of Thanh Quan (c.1796-)

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