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| Kites flying in the strong wind. Photo: MINH DANG |
On the upper floors of the street, the wind blows to dry the clotheslines, the sun's rays tilt across the closed windows, the old bird cage still echoes with its clear singing voice. When many feet have left home to go to work, the balconies are deserted, only the sound of the wind blowing and the thoughtful cooing of pigeons on the tiled roof can be heard. Sometimes you can see an old man leaning back in his chair, intently bending over a new newspaper in his hand, sometimes he looks up and sinks into deep silence in thought. On those upper floors, in the late afternoon, there are girls with their hair down, combing it, feeling their hearts sway with a wild nostalgia. Some people living far away rest their chins on their hands and look down at the street, a long bell ringing echoes from deep within, painfully recalling the lingering sorrows of their homeland.
On moonlit nights that gilded the city, from somewhere someone hummed an old melody. On the upper floors, the moon appeared bright and no longer hidden, the moonlight like a small river gently flowing into me, taking me back to many old places. Amidst the vastness of the high-rise buildings, looking up at the moon, I felt my heart filled with the gentle shadow of the countryside. The moonlight of the city seemed to turn into thousands of sparkling keys, opening the doors leading to the house of origin, weaving thick pieces of primitive memories.
And I see myself as a bird flying against the wind, returning to my motherland, freely flying in the cloudy sky. But no matter how many rivers and distant mountains my wandering feet touch, nowhere can my heart tremble, burst out like when I return with tears in my eyes, embracing the gentle sky of my homeland. Day by day, my heart keeps secretly remembering, my feet dream of the village fields covered with straw and dry grass, walking in the middle of the folk song land, listening to the wind rushing by the shore. On the high floors of my motherland's sky, there are straight areca trees with bunches of green betel leaves, there are ancient banyan trees that have just gone through the season of changing their clothes. There are the shapes of the purple-woven purple scarves of the Lagerstroemia spreading over the lake, clusters of Royal Poinciana flowers lighting up the sky, passionately promising a vast summer...
Paper kites fly in the wind high above the sky, following the sound of the flute calling the fairy tale season. My childhood was filled with the golden light of the country roads, our children's footsteps chattering as we chased after the moon's shadow on the faraway sky. My eyes were filled with shooting stars many nights curled up in my mother's arms, looking up from the steps to the sky filled with a thousand twinkling stars. Then I whispered to my mother, "Is the brightest star up there my grandfather who has transformed into...?"
But all of that still cannot stop the urge to dream of the high floors of the city, one day becoming a child far from home, gently looking up and longing for the distance. Then at some point suddenly feeling my heart wavering, at the moment standing alone on the high floor with the wind blowing. Below are the streets lit up with bright red and yellow lights, but all of it seems to hang in my heart an endless loneliness. Realizing that the myriad of flashy colored lights of the city cannot replace the white starry night in my homeland. How can I tirelessly search for the dreamy skies, the glorious peaks, and turn my back and leave behind the immense soul of my homeland. Whether on the high floor or on the ground, as long as there is a warm home for me to take refuge in, to shake off the sad wind and dust out there, and wholeheartedly kindle my true dreams.
And I also realized that I cannot just look up and forget to humbly bow down. Bow down, to listen to the breath of the land of my origin, to listen to the lullaby of the homeland resounding from the hearts of my grandparents, and the echoes of the motherland of a hundred years, the soul of the mountains, rivers, grass and trees...
Source: https://baophuyen.vn/van-nghe/202505/tren-nhung-tang-cao-f343f5c/
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