thế là mình thử tả lại chuyện viếng mộ trong lớp, vừa giấu giếm, vừa thêm thắt, như sau.

The cemetery was enclosed in four red brick walls, buried in a quiet, small town by the hills. People had all gone to the cities, chasing dreams. The old folks were deserted in their own gardens, whether smirking or sulking, alone. I tried to imagine he used to be one of them, but couldn’t.

I reached the stained entrance of the cemetery. The only route led to an old rusty temple that was at times also a refuge for homeless people. I turned right and walked to the end of the brick walls. It was a rainy season, and wild grass grew everywhere.

He lay in a sea of graves; his was painted turquoise. Wild grass sprouted up from underneath, veiled his name, shielded his face. He stood far away in a small oval black and white photograph. I couldn’t see his face.

The sky was domed like a concave mirror, grey to the furthest horizon. It rained again, melting the dirt into a sticky mud lake, quenching the little fires on the heads of my burning incense. Smoke pierced my eyes. A homeless-weeder kept offering to weed the wild grass as soon as I left. Perhaps having him around would make this place less empty. I gave him a few coins.

It would take more months before the rains died, or memories vaporized. For a moment, I hesitated to think more. He would be here, lying in a sea of graves. But how soon, I wondered, would he die again, drowned in the depth of my amnesia?