09:22, 03/09/2023
After so many years, I revisit the village gate.
I saw a bird carrying a ray of golden sunlight in late autumn.
The country lane is shrouded in smoke from burning grass.
Whose house is that, where the mournful sound of a gourd-shaped instrument is played?
The village gate is battered by wind and rain.
My childhood was filled with dragonflies landing on my feet.
The kite that day broke and fell.
The laughter of old friends still echoes from the bottom of the well.
The village gate was bathed in the midday sun.
Out of love for her father, she persevered in plowing alongside the buffalo.
My mother wore a conical hat and a brown áo dài (traditional Vietnamese dress).
The market is desolate, with vendors carrying baskets of vegetables and onions...
The village gate, made of broken bricks covered in green moss.
Many people from the past have vanished like clouds in the sky.
Choking on a grain of rice in my hand.
My gratitude to my homeland remains heavy with each passing day.
Waving goodbye to the village gate.
Turn your back
Tears welled up.
The image of my homeland is blurred and indistinct...
Thanh Trac Nguyen Van
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