One son, two daughters and one son; 

The eldest is a poet in prison, 

the first daughter, a school teacher, 

the second, a graduate in the kitchen, 

the youngest, a student.

Your poet son, 

is he even employable 

as the dah you use to clear weed?

Forgive nothing, Father. 

Nothing!

“Son, Pho Chan,

why do I hear noises behind you?”, 

you asked on the phone. 

“I am at the bus stop

to post a manuscript to a journal,” I lied.

From your liar son in the dock 

to thugs who sweeten you 

with the tips of their tongues, 

“To our benefactor peasants …”,

because they want to have you from behind,

hate them all, Father. 

Hate them all. 

A thief is 

unarmed.

A thug is 

armed to the teeth.

If thieves are ungovernable,

if thugs are ungovernable, 

what’s the point of government?

Whatever happens to the jungles

whatever happens to the mountains 

whatever happens to the rivers 

they don’t care. 

They love the country 

just the way they love to grate a coconut, 

from inside out, 

for coconut milk.

Plinth by plinth, to make their throne taller,

they will point their guns at the urna 

on the Lord Buddha’s forehead.  

Their class is that crass.

To cuss at that class

if your religion forbids you 

allow me to lose that religion.

I will turn the air blue 

on your behalf.

Maybe you don’t know yet. 

your son was 

set up 

for demanding the so-called police 

not to harm ordinary citizens. 

Someday 

your son, who is not a thief

nor a thug 

will become employable, 

good as your dah that clears weed. 

For now, Father, 

keep gazing at the plantation 

you’d ploughed with your naked shoulders. 

Keep singing 

the anthem of 

The Peasant Union.