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| Kites soar in the strong wind. Photo: MINH DANG |
On the upper floors of the street, the wind playfully dries the clotheslines, the slanted sunlight streaks across the closed windows, and the old birdcage still echoes with the melodious chirping of birds. When countless feet have left home for the hustle and bustle of life, the balconies are silent except for the whistling wind and the pensive cooing of pigeons on the tiled roof. Sometimes you spot an old man leaning back in his chair, intently reading a newspaper, at other times looking up and sinking into silent contemplation. On those high floors, in the late afternoon, young women comb their hair, their hearts stirred by a desolate longing. Some who have left their homes rest their chin on their hands, gazing down at the street, a long, lingering bell echoing from the depths of their hearts, a poignant reminder of their homeland.
On moonlit nights, the city streets gleam with golden light, and from somewhere, a voice hums an old melody. High above, the moon shines brightly, no longer obscured, its light like a gentle stream flowing into me, carrying me back to distant lands. Amidst the towering buildings and skyscrapers, looking up at the moon, I feel a gentle, familiar image of my homeland in my heart. The city moonlight transforms into a myriad of sparkling keys, unlocking the doors to my roots, weaving together fragments of pristine memories.
And I find myself like a bird, blown against the wind, returning to my motherland, soaring freely through the misty skies. But no matter how many rivers and distant mountains my wanderings have touched, nothing makes my heart tremble and burst with emotion like when I return, tears welling up in my eyes, embracing the gentle sky and the shadow of my homeland. Day after day, my heart secretly cherishes this longing, my feet yearn for the village fields with their smoky straw and dry grass, walking amidst folk songs, listening to the wind rushing past the riverbanks. High above the vaulted sky of my motherland, are the straight-trunked betel nut trees bearing clusters of green betel leaves, the ancient banyan trees having just shed their old leaves. There are the lilac trees weaving a purple scarf, their reflections shimmering on the lake's surface, the clusters of flamboyant flowers igniting the sky, a passionate promise to the boundless summer…
Like paper kites soaring high in the wind, carried by the sound of flutes heralding a fairytale season. Childhood memories shimmer on the silvery country paths bathed in golden light, our children's footsteps chasing the moon's reflection in the distant horizon. Countless stars twinkled in my eyes as I curled up in my mother's arms, gazing up from the doorstep at the shimmering starry sky. Then, I whispered to my mother, asking if the brightest star up there was my grandfather who had transformed into a human…
But all of that couldn't stop the urge to dream of the high floors of the city, of one day becoming a child far from home, gently looking up and yearning for something distant. Then, at some point, a feeling of unease and uncertainty arises, standing alone on a high, windswept floor. Below, the streets are illuminated with dazzling red and yellow lights, but everything seems to envelop the heart in an immeasurable, boundless loneliness. Realizing that the myriad glamorous lights of the city can never replace the starry nights of one's homeland. How can one relentlessly search for the heights of dreams, the glorious peaks, while turning one's back on the vast, heartfelt warmth of one's home? Whether on the high floors or on the ground, all that matters is a warm home to return to, to shake off the dust and sorrow of the outside world, and to wholeheartedly rekindle genuine dreams.
And I also realized that we cannot simply look up while forgetting to humbly bow down. Bow down, to listen to the breath of the land and our origins, to hear the lullaby of our homeland echoing from the hearts of our ancestors, and the reverberations of centuries-old motherland, the soul of rivers, mountains, and plants…
Source: https://baophuyen.vn/van-nghe/202505/tren-nhung-tang-cao-f343f5c/
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