The old road sings the song of my father's hurried footsteps.
The frail shadow of the father cannot encompass the thoughts of his son's feet.
My mother knew how to write poetry when my father went to fight in the war.
Kitchen smoke is a flat line, bomb smoke is a sharp line.
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Illustrative image. |
Waiting anxiously in the deserted alley.
Mother writes poetry while lulling the cradle to sleep with her lullaby.
Inside the battlefield, my father is singing lullabies to his comrades.
Sweet melodies carried on the breeze from the rear.
Bomb craters conceal the souls of young grass and the earth.
The battlefield of the reed fields sings the song of blood.
A letter pressed to my father's chest, stained red with the dust of the battlefield.
The definition of love smells of gunpowder.
The definition of life is incomplete without sacrifice.
And one day the smoke and fire of war will end.
Father returns, mother overwhelmed with happiness.
The acacia tree was no longer lonely after that.
My mother's hair is still green, a reminder of my father's memories.
Mother lulls the stork to sleep with her songs.
Mother sang lullabies to father on windy nights.
The scent of soapberry sings a lullaby in the small alley.
The rhythm of the marching army lulls the grass and flowers to sleep.
Lullaby... the child clings to his father's shadow.
Walking innocently amidst the vastness of life's journey.
Source: https://baobacgiang.vn/gui-cha-postid416609.bbg
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