(VHQN) - Who released the wisp of smoke across the sky, painting in me the sadness of my homeland? The fields sprout straw, nurturing childhood memories of chickens clucking at midday. I've walked through the years in the city, unable to remember my long, dust-covered hair. The village road, winding along the rice paddies, drops of endless, forgotten memories.
This afternoon, Mother went to the fields, her back a lonely silhouette, the strange rays of sunlight dancing on her brown dress. Her conical hat tilted, catching the breeze, giving me a refreshing bath of longing and memories. The herd of cows from years past kept wagging their tails, striking my memory. Startled, my feet yearned for the muddy air, the sweet taste of straw, the swarms of grasshoppers flying in all directions to the last rice stalks, bursting into crisp laughter.
The rice harvest seasons filled my mother's mind with endless longing. Some rice stalks bent, some straight. How proud she was, gazing at the vast blue sky, her children watching the pot of white rice in the afternoon rain. Strangely, the image of the rice stalks swaying against my mother's back as she planted seedlings, their fragrance rising from the flickering fire in the hearth. What mother could sleep soundly with her back straight, letting her children run tirelessly across the distant fields…
My mother is old now, the fields are dry and barren. Patches of grass stretch endlessly across the plains. No longer can she stand at noon gazing down at the vast expanse amidst the undulating waves of rice. The sun's rays are round and round, yet she hasn't returned. I keep to myself the magical image of the fields, reminiscing when the weather changes and a sudden rain shower falls under the narrow eaves. In the corner of the garden, there's no sound of chickens, only the occasional stray bird's cry that startles me. Even the starfruit blossom, just a tiny cluster, hangs precariously, carrying the memory of barefoot, scorching midday sun.
Oh, Mother, has the rice harvest been completed yet? It keeps sprouting new ears of grain in my heart, year after year, without rest. The crescent moon hangs high in the sky, reaping seasons of longing. The fields are devoid of egrets and herons, leaving me to sit alone, weeping in solitude. Tomorrow, when the wind changes, Mother's rice will stumble and fall, and the homeland will bear the burden of returning home...
Oh, those city feet, lingering over the distant fields. Baskets, sieves, and winnowing trays overflowing with rice. The clear grains of rice, a simple country meal of fish and vegetables, each hoe stroke turning the soil in the golden harvest season. Returning to the rice paddies, burdened with the struggles of life, they pour their burdens onto the fields in the evening. Kites, full of wind, soar high...
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