Good morning, Viet Nam

The year is growing close to Tet,

the night is cool and calm,

and under my mosquito-net 

in Hanoi, Viet Nam,

the buzz of electricity

is colouring all sound.

I'm hoping she will visit me,

but there's no one around.

These walls are chalked in fading white

and cracking up cement.

I'm going on my second night 

here in this room for rent.

To me the world outside is dead.

The fever clouds my eyes.

The pressure built up in my head

is like a tightened vice.

When will she come? Oh, will she come?

No, never it may seem.

But call me dumb. Yes, I am dumb

cause still I hold this dream

that she will leave her room before

she steals away to be

the one who knocks upon my door

and whispers: "It is me."

She is no love that thus can ease

the fire in my veins.

She lacks the beauty to release

the hold upon my brains,

but there is passion in this scene

which only fits this night

which must be savoured while it's keen,

which dies with morning light.

This sickness grabs my naked spine.

I shiver in its grip.

This body is no longer mine

and stringy as a whip,

but then she's there. She's in my room

although this cannot be.

She whispers softly: "I'm your doom.

Yes, darling. It is me."

It strikes me numb. I'll die of fright

if she shows me her face.

I shut my eyes. It's not tonight,

and this is not the place.

I hear her scream: "I am your dream.

I am your lust come true.

How can I give myself? It seems

there is no trust in you."

But I can feel the passion go

along with all the pain.

The cynic grabs a hold to show

me irony again,

and when I meet her face by day,

it will be like before.

"No love, no beauty." I would say:

"A girl and nothing more."

I gather up the strength it takes

to lift the pen and write

before the morning comes with aches

that will erase this night.

The morning comes to Viet Nam.

My sheets are cold and wet,

and I am lying here embalmed

in my mosquito-net.