Poems from Sakon Nakhon
T
he hot season
is a time of rest,
when the soil turns to sand,
and all that was green
turns brittle and brown,
a time to drink sato
in a sala by the pond,
listening to mor lam and
the sounds of som dtam
being made,
a time
to set the world aside
and let the heart recuperate,
from what's been lost
and what's been
gained.
