“Poem about phuket and the buffalo sad la d inspired to Giacomo Leopardi”

Upon the Isle of Phuket, moonlit blooms recline,  
Mangrove fingers brushing tides’ salt sigh—  
And in the silent fields, beneath the sprawl of sky,  
A buffalo, alone, wears centuries of time.

Its horns arch longing, slow as distant thunder,  
Eyes liquid with the memory of green,  
Amid the hum of scooters blurring through the scene  
And bamboo shacks dissolving in nights torn asunder.

Oh, creature bound to mud and dawn,  
You wanderworn ox, patient as old hills—  
Have you, like I, weighed hope against all ills?  
Do you taste in rain the sweetness that is gone?

Phuket’s sun is gold, but not for every beast;  
The tourists’ laughter ebbs like foam retreating east.  
Yet, the buffalo stands, ancient, broad with sorrow—  
His world recedes, as do all promised dawns tomorrow.

Silent companion, whose days unwind in gray,  
Your solitude kindles the griefs I would confess.  
Are we not kin, you and I, lost in largeness—  
Tethered to beauty, longing for a gentler way?

So let the waves strike cliffs, the people come and go,  
Still, the buffalo’s lament—the real, the slow—  
Rings outward from Phuket’s heart, as Leopardian wind,  
Crying for what was, and what is, and what might have been.

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