Author: Veasna Heng

When heaven’s vault unbars its iron gate,
And rain descends with neither plea nor pause,
The road once known submits itself to fate,
Unmade by water’s unrelenting laws.

The ruts grow deep where wheels had traveled true,
The markers fade beneath a shifting skin;
What once was simple passage to pursue
Becomes a test of nerve and discipline.

The stream, now swollen past its modest claim,
Spreads wide to dare the measured step to fail;
It asks of man more judgment than of aim,
More steadied hand than favoring wind or sail.

No kindly veil, this curtain cast from sky—
But trial laid where comfort used to lie.

Yet in its surge a harder lesson stands:
The ground is earned by thought, not given land.

Along the winding trail where dust doth rise,
And sunlight weaves through canopies of gold,
Our wagon moves beneath the open skies,
A steadfast craft through wilderness untold.

Three comrades dear sit solemn by my side,
Their presence firm as stone in evening’s breath;
Through forest deep and over plains wide,
They share each mile, each silence, and each depth.

The horses lead with calm, unyielding pace,
Their hooves like metronomes on ancient ground;
While distant peaks stand guard in solemn grace,
As though they mark the path where we are bound.

So rolls our caravan through fate’s design—
For truest strength is theirs, and wholly mine.

When comrades wander forth through time and space,
To chase the fruit of study, toil, or chance,
Each tale they bear doth gild their weary face,
And bids our hearts to join their glad expanse.

The scholar’s word, by candlelight conceived,
Returns as treasure, richer than pure gold;
The traveler’s song, in distant lands achieved,
Breathes life anew in stories brave and bold.
Yet truest bond is friendship’s gentle thread,
Which time may stretch but never rend in twain;
Its voice abides when fleeting hours are fled,
And lifts us up through joy as well as pain.
So joy is sown in every voice we hear,
For each farewell returns as something dear.

When midnight’s veil doth cloak the shrouded lands,
And owls cry out in ruined, ivy halls,
I seek thee, Sleep, with open, aching hands,
And flee the world within thy shadowed thralls.
Thou art no thief, but bring’st a peace so deep,
More fair than love, more true than daylight’s grace.
Each breath I take within thy house of sleep
Leaves dream-born roses blooming o’er my face.
Disturb me not, lest death itself ye crave,
For by my flintlock, loaded, sharp, and keen,
I guard this rest more dearly than the grave,
And curse the soul who dares to come between.
So let the wind wail low, the night be steep—
For none shall wake me from my hallowed sleep.

Upon the path where shadows softly creep,

Beneath the cloak of night’s celestial glow,

With caution tread, where ancient secrets sleep,

To yonder monastery, dark and low.

The stars, like watchful eyes in heaven’s dome,

Illuminate the way with silver light,

Yet in the air, a chill begins to roam,

For whispers tell of creatures of the night.

The ancient stones, with ivy overgrown,

Stand silent, shrouded in a mystic air,

As if they guard a truth long left unknown,

A tale of blood and darkness lurking there.

With every step, the shadows seem to dance,

And in their depths, a sense of fateful chance.

Upon the frozen fields where frost doth bite,
The barren earth seems locked in winter’s chain.
Yet ‘neath the snow, a promise glimmers bright,
And dreams of spring within the heart remain.

For through the night’s cold veil of dread and blight,
The hunter wields his artful black powder’s might.
Its thunder splits the heavens, fierce and raw,
And bends the beast beneath its mortal law.

But lo, though courage crowns the valiant fight,
The toll of labor finds a bitter bane.
For kings and lords, in greed, do claim their right,
And tax the hand that wrought their gilded gain.

Thus winter yields, yet man remains oppressed—
The fields may bloom, but burdens steal his rest.