One hundred years. Oh, Prefect of Vĩnh-Tường.
Now your love debt is all paid off.
Your poetic talents buried three feet down.
Your fine ambitions windstrewn.
The heavenly scales got dropped and lost.
The mouth of earth’s bag is cinched up.
Twenty-seven months seemed to short.
One hundred years. Oh, Prefect of Vĩnh-Tường.