Modern Thebes Poem by Phan Thanh gian

Where is your virtuous saviour now?
I pity my Theban friends, they cry in vain
Pulling out meshes of their own hair,
They are clawing deep into their own skin

Who will look after your helpless denizens?
Your orphans tremble in dark forest,
Wandering aimlessly they stare in the void
Lost, they stumble among thorny snares

What about old men, weaklings and widows?
No longer cared for by their abled kind
Unwanted, casted in piles
Mere shadows waiting for their sufferings to end

Your clogged arteries are throbbing sores.
Your palatial halls were erected on hallow ground,
Now stained and choked in poisonous air.
Arid fields are plagued by thirsty evil spirits

Clouds of locus block out the sun
Devouring the peasant's meagre crops
Their plea would reach the sky
Yet those around them could not hear.

Your gleaming towers have turned into dark ruins,
All that is left are the bare columns.
Golden inscriptions of your glorious past,
Lay burried deep under strata of detritus

My brothers, this scourge is yours to bear!
I feel your pain, yet I can do little
Has your mighty leader lost his way?
His house in disarray, foundation rotten to the core

On our fingers, we count the capital's last days.
Twitching among its chalky rubbles
Are eminciated cheeks with yearning eyes,
Witnessing this Eden's morbid end.