https://chienphan.blogspot.com/2012/07/mua-o-moilo-hen.html
https://chienphan.blogspot.com/2012/07/mua-o-moilo-hen-2.html
https://chienphan.blogspot.com/2012/07/au-o-vi-dau-cau-dan-ong-inh-cau-tre-lac.html
Rock-a-bye, the bridge is nailed and firm The bamboo bridge is shaky, the footing is precarious…
I know, my dear. You are dreaming of a thatched roof of your own, one that isn't tattered, with the laughter of a child—much like the neighbor’s babe whose lullaby drifts in through the wall, lulling a soul under the playful sunlight in the yard. You are as honest as the scent of young seedlings, a fragrance that has lingered through years of sowing in the fields, never fading. Even though you are far from the ferry that carries passengers across the river, far from the hoe that strikes the earth every morning under shy, hesitant glances, you came to the city hoping for a moment of change—not to flee poverty, but to escape the distant, longing ache in your mother's eyes. That honesty remains.
You loved her with a simple, clumsy heart, as lonely as the desolate evening breeze that swept away your youth spent playing on the restless fields. You grew up swaying in the tremors of love, chasing her through every turning point of life, from the moment her cheeks first blushed with maidenhood until the day she "crossed the river" to another. You only sat by the river’s edge, suppressing a glance toward the wedding, fearing you couldn't hold back at the sight of her bridal gown. A burst of shame, crying for a life that felt like a stone you threw into the water—it sank with a thud, unable to stir even a single ripple.
You cherished her more than anything you owned. Truly! Even though her "boat" had capsized mid-stream. She fled from her husband's house back to you with a tattered soul, her very flesh stinging. You said nothing, only pulled her tight into your embrace amidst the chaotic roar of traffic outside the labor district. She cried until your shirt was soaked, like a monsoon rain falling relentlessly on a roof in the lonely night. There was a small flame flickering in the center of the house, warming a heart. For a whole month, you washed her wounds with your own silence; for her, that was enough. Not a single word of questioning was needed, for any inquiry would have snapped the stitches, causing the wounds to burst open and bleed without end. She knew that. She only slipped in and out of the makeshift room you rented, cooking meals that brought the scent of their home fields back to you in place of words. Kho quẹt (caramelized fish sauce), a pot of braised food, and a bowl of sour soup without fish. Yet you ate with such gusto. Heartbreaking.
Now, perhaps the sound of a child’s voice has drifted into your sleep. It must be so. She gently traced her well-groomed fingers along your back, your skin, every fiber of your muscle… she was stunned because the desire of old was still smoldering, not yet numbed, even after the assault of cattle trampling upon her full-moon body that had just begun to wane. You turned over with shimmering eyes, your body radiating a wave of heat, pulling her entirely into your arms and delivering kisses. Hurriedly. You lay upon her, your arms tightening as if fearing to lose her a second time, lest the riverbank have to receive more stones falling sadly into the water muddied by years of sludge. For some reason, her tears flowed uncontrollably, like a dike bursting into the fields. Unceasing. Panic appeared in your eyes. She wished she were a Cassia tree then—so that when one "eye" (bud) was cut away and weeping, there would still be another eye behind it—an eye that would shine with a happiness, however incomplete, as the flesh, brimming with the sap of life, rushed to liberate its youthful vitality. The assault returned. The young mother’s lullaby has ceased. Adrift.
Seeking Oblivion
I know, my dear. I knew from the moment I rented a room here. Every morning on the way to work, I received from you a silent smile in a gaze where innocence had vanished. Then, after the shift, I would cast a lingering look back at you, like an egret flying indifferently across the fields in those early days. You were thin, with the silhouette of a scholar; your face and hair were as neat as an official in a movie. I’ve seen many, but that half-real, half-acted quality belonged only to the look in your eyes. There was a dark alley somewhere that descended into the small path past the temporary rented room before reaching your house—the city left road dust on your shirt, mingled with a fading scent.
The stories you told as the afternoon rain drizzled… I listened, but my heart was elsewhere. I only saw the fleeting silhouette of someone walking on a slippery, muddy road, feet trying to claw into the mire as the wind whipped the young coconut fronds. You kept smiling as if life weren't dark, saying her eyes were gentle every time she looked toward the distance. A few words exchanged from the doorstep, then into the house after every lonely night. You shared the secrets of a life that had lost its heart when your first love left because you lived a precarious existence, barely getting by. Now that things are better, a part of your soul has grown cold in the search for old memories. Extinguished.
The wind blows through the hair, the flesh receiving every chill down to the heart. Across the hall, a couple lives day by day, a creaking life of poverty over shared meals. Hot, warm—a room. She is barren every moment you aren't there, even if it's just the stories of your life, like the sound of a gecko chirping every night as if calling for life to be less ironic. Giving oneself a path to live.
She lay down, awaiting every wave of warmth radiating from your hand as it glided gently, as if cradling a kite taut in the wind. Bewildered. You gave her the silent gaze of the first day; each button was undone as the night sky drizzled with a late-season rain, flickering as the first winds of winter swept across two bodies merging into one. Naked. She held you tight against her, fearing you would see her tears falling uncontrollably. Exhausted.
"You’re no longer... are you?" You asked her when your breath had not yet returned to normal. She gave you a silent gaze. Lightning struck somewhere on the roof, a flash shattering the dark night. Fleeting. You returned a silent gaze, then went back to your own home. She sat curled in a corner of the room, her teeth incessantly biting her fingernails. Bleeding. Somewhere, the sound of someone lulling a child echoed faintly:
It’s hard to walk, Mother leads the child The child goes to the school of books, Mother goes to the school of life
I am grown now, Mother, but I haven't finished a single grade in the school of life. I want to go home to you, Mother. The Cassia flowers have all bloomed. I want to go home to you, Mother. The Cassia flowers have all bloomed.
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