Song from the Great Forest

Whenever I feel weary, I return to the forest to find my heart melting, softening amidst a captivating emotion. I follow the winding path, seemingly etched with reddish-brown brushstrokes, bearing the footprints of generations. An old woman with a basket on her back leads her cow along the mountainside; a barefoot child with sun-kissed, wind-blown golden hair; a young girl with a smile as bright as a forest flower basking in the morning sun. They excitedly guide me into the forest, which isn't far at all; the vast, undulating wilderness lies right behind the tranquil stilt houses, weathered by sun and dew throughout the seasons. These stilt houses, nestled against the massive, sturdy shoulder of the forest, have stood there for generations.

The forest during the transition from summer to autumn is already strangely beautiful. But each time I see it, I feel like I'm discovering it for the first time, gazing at it with fascination and contemplating its beauty.

Weary footsteps rub against the rough, dry branches and decaying wood. I want to lie down there, press my ear against the soft leaves, listen to the movements of insects, the chirping of ants, the spiders spinning their webs, the noisy bees building their nests… Occasionally, I see a few translucent amber cicada carcasses transforming into life for the forest floor. The forest's beauty lies in its nameless, ageless organisms, in its layers of rare and exotic flowers and plants that remain undiscovered for eternity. Profound yet gentle. Majestic yet serene and poetic.

Illustration: Dao Tuan

As the seasons change, summer departs without a word of farewell. The forest welcomes gentle sunlight, weaving golden hues onto the lush green foliage, accompanied by the rustling of countless winds. A myriad of wildflowers bloom in a riot of colors; some, I only just learned of, resemble clusters of red-orange bells growing densely from the base to the top of the tree, clinging to the trunk to burst into bloom. When the wind blows, the flowers don't wait for each other, but spontaneously sway their petals, covering the base with a vibrant carpet. My Thai friend, who was with me, chattered excitedly:

- My locals call it "pip flower," sister. This flower is beautiful and delicious too...

The slopes of the sandalwood trees, along the edge of the forest, swayed in a pristine white. From afar, the sandalwood blossoms sparkled as if covered in silver glitter; was it my imagination or the sunlight that painted such a delicate yet captivating color? I was lost in the flowers, lost in the trees. Like a lovesick fool, I stood beneath the solitary, silvery-white, smooth, towering sandalwood trunks that reached towards the blue sky.

This season, the forest is fragrant, fragrant with the scent of sunshine and wind, the scent of tree bark, the scent of flowers and leaves. The scent of the in-between weather of rain and sunshine, the scent of origins, of the soul of the people born in this place. For generations, the forest has sheltered them, protecting them from rain and floods.

Beneath the swaying mulberry tree, clusters of ripe red berries glisten like lipstick on pure lips. I silently gaze at the peaceful, prosperous villages nestled along the gentle river, their reflections mirrored in the majestic green canopy of the vast forest. I recognize the resonant notes of the song of my origins. Endless and boundless.

Then, the demands of work gradually reduced my interactions with the forest. On the rare occasions I returned, my heart sank, tinged with sadness and regret, expressed in a deep, distant sigh. The green cloak of the forest no longer swayed gracefully in its primal dance, but was tattered as if torn and scratched by some emotionless hand. I couldn't take my eyes off the barren hills where only solitary trees remained. A few roots had broken from the earth, a few wild animals startled at the sight of a human figure…

Perhaps the forest is in great pain, but it cannot cry. It can only silently endure, unwilling to complain, blame, or lament. This wordless, profoundly agonizing silence sows fear that one day, the verdant mountains and clear waters, the endless green slopes, will still exist in the struggle for survival.

Suddenly, one day, a great flood, like a raging beast unleashing its fury, swept away and submerged everything. This terrifying nightmare haunted the subconscious of countless people born in the forest and about to return to it. Amidst the swirling, reddish currents, amidst the howling wind and heart-wrenching cries, lay the helpless sigh of the vast forest.

I suddenly felt a pang of nostalgia for the forest of my childhood memories. I remembered the sounds of geckos and deer announcing the arrival of the rainy season. I remembered the sudden forest rain, bending down to take shelter under the interwoven leaves of the wild fig trees, skillfully crafted by Mother Nature. Every evening, my grandmother would turn her head to look towards the dark shadows of the forest with a pensive, affectionate gaze. On the day she passed away, my parents chose an open patch at the foot of the mountain for her to rest beside the clumps of wild plants that sang lullabies throughout the seasons…

I don't know how many rainy seasons and floods have passed over my poor homeland. When the wind howls, the trees in the garden fall, and the yellowish-brown floodwaters from the stream overflow onto the road. The children huddle together, their eyes fixed on the forest, longing for its embrace and protection. The forest, our true home, stands tall, protecting the land, the homeland, and the living soul.

Memories and the present intertwine, surging within me like undercurrents. I suddenly awaken, realizing that nature's fury is gradually subsiding, and the river is once again reflecting its verdant hues.

The vast forest whispers its own language, yet everyone can hear it as clearly as the beat of their own heart. The whispers linger, forming a song that instills in me a longing for tomorrow, when the wounds on the forest's form will be healed. Countless seeds, countless saplings will slowly sprout from the barren soil. A yearning overflowing with life…

Source: https://baothainguyen.vn/van-nghe-thai-nguyen/202508/khuc-ca-tu-dai-ngan-1433ae8/