Mom is always in my life.

Throughout life, a mother is always present. She is like a familiar garden welcoming the early morning sun, and through the autumns, the scent of guava lingers around the fragrant landscape of childhood.

Mother is the place where we were born and raised, defining a homeland that will never fade from the hearts of those who have been away for many years. Mother still watches over us, she is always by our side, she often comforts and soothes us, she is a solid support… whenever we are sad. To commemorate Vietnamese Women's Day on October 20th, SGGP Newspaper presents poems by Pham Hong Danh and Nguyen Tan On.

My mother's burial place

My mother's placenta was buried there.

I left and never returned.

The sand was still hot on the sun-drenched, windy riverbank.

The grass withered sadly at the foot of the dike.

***

I returned on a cold, moonlit night.

The dewdrop in the late night remembers the scent of youthful hair.

Which hand has traveled so far?

We owe each other words from the moment of parting.

***

In my eyes, there are clouds and the shadow of a tower.

Having drifted aimlessly since the time we were forced to leave our source.

Hoai An, I have never repaid you.

The exile still harbors a sad dream.

***

The blood-stained moon in Han Mac Tu's poetry

Waiting for each other amidst the desolate graves.

Waves gently caress the footsteps of the traveler.

A touch of hometown flavor is not enough to warm the heart of a worldly life.

***

And within me lies a cold winter afternoon.

The sea of ​​Quy Nhon roars in the distance, far from people.

She trembled and leaned against the cliff.

I am weary and dejected in the pouring rain and wind.

***

The rain continues to fall, a mournful farewell.

The old garden still holds traces of the young woman.

I was immersed in the heart-wrenching, melancholic melody.

What kind of fate is it to be far from one's homeland?

PHAM HONG DANH

---

Autumn passes through mother's garden.

The sun-drenched garden in the countryside has turned the fruit yellow.

The wind blew in a winding path down the hillside.

The rose bush awakens during the leaf-shedding season.

A bare branch stands beside the sky, where thin clouds drift by.

***

Each guava smells of sunshine.

The birds are chirping as they return.

How I miss the path winding through the grassy slope.

I cherish the footprints of those who toil tirelessly.

***

A few light rain showers wet the mountains.

It was very light, but the forest was still cold.

The path lined with leaves, swaying silently.

Unable to utter a name, my heart swelled with emotion.

***

The sound of the hoe, the weary posture.

Bending over, the grass is drenched in mist.

Father nurtures the roots in the sunlight, as summer ends.

Mother pulls the evening branch, swaying the autumn shadows.

NGUYEN TAN ON

THN

Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/luon-co-me-trong-doi-post818796.html