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Je voudrais des fleurs pour tes mains,
Et pour tes pas
Un peti sentier dherbe et de sable,
Qui monte un peu et qui descende
Et tourne et semble
Sen aller au fond du silence,
Un tout petit-sentier de sable
O marqueraient un peu tes pas,
Nos pas
(Henry de Rgnier 1864-1936)

anh mun th.t nhi`u hoa cho tay em,
cho buoc chn em anh mun
con duo`ng mo`n co? xanh
nguo.n ln, xui xung, quanh,
di dn t.n cu`ng yn ti`nh,
con duo`ng mo`n cat trang
in ma~i khng nho`a
du chn an ho`a.
i ta.
(Tr`n Mai Chu
ma`u tho`i gian khng xanh
ma`u tho`i gian tim ngat
huong tho`i gian khng n`ng
huong tho`i gian thanh thanh
(oa`n Phu Tu?)

die farbe der zeit ist nicht blau
die farbe der zeit ist tief lila
der duft der zeit ist nicht leidenschaftlich
der duft der zeit ist sanft
(oa`n Phu Tu?)
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l do roi rc li thin thai,
sui tie?n oanh dua lung nga.m ngi
nu?a nam tin ca?nh,
mo.t buc trn ai,
uc cu duyn tha c th thi!
d mn, ru nha.t,
nuc cha.y, hu tri,
ci ha.c bay ln vt ta.n tri!
tri dt t dy xa cch mi.
du non,
dung li cu,
ngn nam tho tha?n bng trang choi
(Ta?n )
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On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying, and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.

Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.

That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.

I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.

(Rabindranath Tagore)