The luc bat (six-eight) is a Vietnamese syllabic form with a progressive rhyme scheme.
And was there ever space between the nesting place of sense and fortune's recompense? The broken plan's dispensary of promises we see at last turn out to be a sop to hope. We do not stop to gaze, but seize inopportune moments to importune imagined gods to prune the vine of providence in line with inward-looking mindlessness. -o- Once, in a season less seeing, let's call it yesterday, I dreamed I saw a way to stretch the month of May through all eternity, forestall the times of drought, of falling leaves. I reasoned - no-one grieves in green fields, till the sheaves are gold and thresher ripe. The old from age to age had sold the myth of Barleycorn but with no ear for quest or grith for doubt. Then I would do without their gloomy counsel, flout the tongue of time, and in a young man's satiety, let hunger wait. -o- I find I pass, of late, close by the orchard gate, to see the laden apple tree. Stark fruits, these, no leotard or thong to pass for hard won muscle tone, no garden-grown impostors. These have known a crippling wind and thrown a glove back in its face. I shove the gate. It yields. Above my head a choice of crispness. Fed on dreams, I pick the reddest one or she picks me. We run childless to catch the undone latch that closes as we snatch desperate at the matchless end of timelessness, pretend to know what we're intended for.