DU, Nguyen

The tale of Kieu

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Thus is the way of love and this the way of lovers..

The sensitive skein of the heart, who can unravel it?

At his window, among his books this memory

Possessed the young man Kim. The more he measured his distress

The more it grew, it overflowed. Long were the days of waiting,

Like the long-drawn sadness of many Autumns.

The curtains like a veil of mist held fast their secret,

His dear mirage in the world's red dust half hidden seemed.

Moons changed in the course of the long nights,

The oil in the lamp burnt low,

And ever his thoughts turned to search for the same face,

His heart still yearning for that other heart.

Cold and close as a bell seemed his small room,

His writing brushes idle lay by the lute with idle strings,

Endless the wind sighed in the sun-blind of stretched silk.

As soon as he lit the incense stick scent quickened memory,

Though in vain he sought in tea the elusive aroma of love.

Someday our destinies must unite... why suffer this cruel game?

Heaven, what plan was this to let her cross my path,

A girl so rare, of beauty by which citadels are stormed

His dream was still his torment, memory was held entranced

By the face of his longing and the sweet place where they met.

He returned to behold again that place

Green green as ever grew that grass,

In the clear running stream no glint remained,

Only the cool breeze of evening ruffled his yearning,

The teasing rushes shook as by some passing form.

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A prisoner now she must remain,

Locked in the Blue Pavilion and alone

In her young beauty. Only the distant mountains,

Though so far, she felt as friends, and the near moon

Watched at her window. All about, below around

The sand dunes, ochre tinged and barren, spread afar;

Dust from the roads blew a red restless mist.

Morning in the heavens piled bright clouds,

At night the lamp's lone fluttering flame danced in her eyes.

All that she saw, all that she thought and felt

Turned in confusion in her troubled heart

Where is he now who drank love's cup with me?

Day after day he waits for news of me

In vain, in that lost country, under the skies of home.

Love fresh, red and living in my heart still waits...

My cherished parents... How I remember them

With pity! ... morning and evening at the door, scanning the road

Anxious, without a hope. Who now will care,

On hot days to fan them or cover them from cold?

In the courtyard of my home how many times

Has the sun cast his blaze, has the rain wept?

And there the catalpa tree ¹ now growing old

Inert with sorrow at the fall of night she watched the waters far,

On the estuary the small sails came and went

Bearing who knows what travelers.

Grieving she watched the running of the tides.

Those tossed flowers on the waves, when will they rest?

Grieving she watched the grasses withering on the dunes

Sky and earth met there in a green that was only dusk

Grieving she saw how the land-wind tossed the waters of the bay

The clamorous waves came leaping to the walls of her lonely room.

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The flowers grew richer, their perfume more insistent,

The ardour in their eyes lit in one flame,

Kim's passion surged within him, a strong flood

And now some licence pierced his tenderness.

She warned him... Let us not treat lightly this great love

Now let me speak to you one simple word.

Tender is the blossom of the peach and to the blue bird's coming

Never would I lock the garden gate,

But we are sworn to marry and for that

She who must wear the wife's plain smock her body must keep pure,

If like wantons in the mulberry-groves I fail,

And all unworthy prove you I merit your contempt.

Should we the passing flower of a day thus seize

To stain henceforth the wholeness of our love?

Remember Thoi and Truong's ¹ love so beautiful,

Alas the rains and storms too quickly spoiled

Their treasured loves, the too fond willing flowers

Faded before the birds of Spring. Their pinions touched,

The feathers interlaced... already love was fading,

Contempt was whispering in their hearts, their vows undone

That they held sacred once. And so love died in shame.

The lovely Thoi her shuttle ² should have thrown

To bind, not loose her love. Why should we haste

To break the branch and snatch the flowers?

The day will come when love will answer love.

…..

S ở Ki ế n H à nh

A woman with three children
Sat together by the roadside
The child still in her womb
The older one carrying a basket
What is in that basket so full?
Leek, or perhaps some rice husks
It is past noon, yet no meal has come
Her clothes are torn and ragged
She doesn’t lift her eyes to those who pass
Her tears flow down her sleeves
The children still laugh with joy
Unaware of their mother's deep pain
How does a mother’s heart ache?
In that year of famine, they wandered to another village
In that village, crops flourished
The rice price was not too high
She had no regrets about leaving home
As long as there was a way to survive
One person works tirelessly
But cannot feed all four mouths
They beg along the road each day
How long can this last?
Before her eyes, the moment of death draws near
Her blood and flesh feed the wolves
The mother dies without regret
Her sorrow only deepens as she comforts her children
Her heart aches terribly
The sun itself turns yellow with sadness
The cold wind blows sharply
Those who travel the road feel the pain too
Last night at the West River station
There was a lavish feast
Venison and fish with the finest wine
Tables full of pork and goat meat
The officials refused to touch the dishes
Only their attendants sampled the food
And cast it aside without care
The neighbor's dogs even turn away from the food
But does anyone know
That on this very road
A mother and her children starve and suffer?
Who will paint this scene
And present it to the king?

Long Thanh C ầ m Gi ả Ca

The beautiful lady of Long Thanh
Her name unknown
She alone could play the zither
The people called her the Zither Maiden
Her melody of “Cung Phung” was passed down from the ancient court,
It was a song so perfect, it seemed to come from heaven.
Once, I met her by the Giám Lake,
She was twenty-one, dressed in a pink robe, her face glowing like a flower.
The wine in her cup made her look innocent, her fingers danced on the strings.
The sound was soft like the wind through the trees,
Clear as a distant cry of cranes.
Strong like thunder breaking stone,
Sorrowful like the moans of a sick woman.
The listeners were enchanted, unaware of the depth of her song.
The officers of Tây S ơ n were drunk, not realizing the time.
They fought for rewards,
Money had no value to them.
Her elegance surpassed that of kings,
While young men of Ng ũ L ă ng were not worthy of comparison.
Time passed, but my memory of her remains.
Even now, I recall her once again.
Her beauty has faded, and the world has moved on.

The Village at Night

In the front of Thanh Thao village, an old man lies resting,
As the dusk darkens the southern riverside.
The full moon illuminates the sky, casting light on the still waters,
A cold lamp flickers in the breeze, hanging amid countless trees.
Though aged, the man still does not realize his struggle for livelihood,
Only when the burdens of life ease does he find peace within.
Through the years, he remains a companion to the fishermen and woodcutters,
And laughs freely amidst the mist rising from the lake and the wild grass.

The Beggar’s Alms

The long sword stands tall, defying the blue sky,
Rolling in the muck for three decades.
What use have the words ever been to me?
Alas, now I suffer hunger and cold, only to find solace in others' pity.

The Stone of Waiting for the Husband

Is it a stone? Or a human form? Who stands there?
Alone atop a mountain, enduring the passage of a thousand springs.
For countless lifetimes, no rain or mist will grace the stone,
Its figure immortalized, forever faithful.
Autumn rains fall like endless tears,
The moss upon the stone records a tribute to her.
Looking around, the mountains stretch on endlessly,
Is the cycle of loyalty reserved only for women?

The Words of the Young Man at the Hat-making Street

What a pity, the fate of T ấ n and T ầ n,
So unfamiliar, so distant, from close to far.
Before the dawn, the day is already long,
Even now, I am still angry at the chicken that died in vain.
Pity the bright star, for no reason,
And how foolish to strike the sky with a hammer.
As I passed by, I glanced at the region,
The voice of the nightingale, its sound like a lingering cry.
On the old doorstep, the last embers still glow,
The areca nut remains, waiting for my lover.
High above, Mount H ồ ng S ơ n rises steeply,
The boat ride is long, yet love is still constant.
Why all these strange doubts and worries,
From last night to this evening, everything seems uncertain.
As I travel further, I hear the distant sounds,
And the whispers are almost like whispers in my ear.
In my homeland, the morning sun and the evening rain,
Already sorrowful, it only deepens as I travel further.
Indifferent, I pass the familiar sights,
Now tired of the same places, I grow angry.
The moon, slanting, casts a golden shadow,
And I pause, remembering the distant door.
Restlessly, I lie under the wide, flat screen,
Confused, as though tangled in threads that can never be undone.
When the market at V ị nh opens, I look again,
On the third day, but I don't see you, perhaps by the thirteenth.
The more I wait, the more I can't see you,
The betel nut is consumed in vain, several times now.
Thinking I was joking, I was wrong.
But it has stirred my heart, deeply.
Looking to the sky, the clouds form distant layers,
Looking to the moon, it promises to return by the thirtieth.
Unintentionally, the moon behaves like a person,
And here I am, silently smiling, as I think of my own fate.

Đ ố i t ử u

Sitting in meditation, the window open, the wine slowly numbs the eyes,
Countless petals fall, carpeting the green moss.
While alive, never finishing a full cup of wine,
After death, who will pour it over my grave?
The hues of spring change, the oriole flies away,
The years silently press on, turning my hair to gray.
Among the many desires, none more than to drink deep and often,
Life's fleeting nature, like passing clouds, truly brings sorrow.

The Letter of Xiao Qing

The garden by West Lake has now turned into a wasteland.
I visit her only through the book I read at the window.
The makeup has a soul, it must feel sorrow for the events that unfolded after death,
Literature lacks destiny but still suffers from consequences, with a few poems remaining.
The sorrow of the past is too difficult to inquire about,
In the face of misfortune, I, too, am one who shares her fate.
Who knows, three hundred years from now,
Who in the world will mourn T ố Nh ư ?

Văn t ế th ậ p lo ạ i ch ú ng sinh / Funeral Rite for the Ten Types of Beings

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In the damp rainy season of July, the misty air brings a cold chill, as if the evening of autumn wraps around the bones. The swaying grasses are tinged with silver, and the leaves of corn fall golden, creating an atmosphere of melancholy.

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The birch trees cast long shadows in the waning light of the day, while the mist rises along the road of pears. One cannot help but feel deeply connected, as if the human world is just as fleeting as the world of the spirits. In the dark, desolate night, there is an ethereal presence, a feeling of cold and distant things.

There is a sense of pity for the myriad souls—each one drifting alone, their essence scattered in this world, their spirits homeless in the night. With no shelter, their souls roam, lost and forsaken, unclaimed by any one person, indifferent to virtue or vice.

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In this time of sorrow, a ritual is performed to release the spirits from their suffering. Water is poured gently, as the Buddhist teachings of compassion promise salvation, leading souls to the Western Paradise of peace and liberation.

But there are those who, in life, sought fame and glory, climbing over others in their quest for power. Yet, even they must face the unpredictability of fate. The storm brings ruin, and no matter how mighty their reach, they cannot escape the inevitable.

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Suddenly, the storm comes. The proud ones, once wealthy and powerful, are left broken and bloodied. Their once grand fortunes are reduced to nothing, as they are swept away by the tide of misfortune, scattered across the battlefield of life.

The wandering souls have no place to rest. In the darkness of the night, they cry out in torment, lost in the bleak winds. Their existence is but a fleeting moment, a brief passage between life and death, caught in a never-ending cycle of despair.

There are those who once enjoyed wealth and power, their bodies surrounded by luxury. Yet, now, their lives are but ashes in the wind. Once vibrant, now lifeless, they are left in the emptiness of time, with no one to care for them, no one to mourn their passing.

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The rich and the powerful, once full of life, now find their time has passed. Their fortunes, once grand, are now but memories fading into the abyss of oblivion. What was once theirs is now nothing, as they have become mere shadows, drifting through the winds of fate.

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There are those whose lives were marked by ambition, whose hands once held the power to shape kingdoms. But now, they too are caught in the same fate, powerless and alone. They, too, must face the inevitable end, where all their efforts and struggles are for naught.

In the deep of night, the mournful cries of souls lost to the passage of time fill the air. Their lives, once full of potential, now lie forgotten. Their names, once sung in praise, are now whispered in sorrow, as they too must face the fate that awaits all.

Even the great and mighty, those who thought themselves invincible, must bow to the greater forces of nature. The winds and the rains do not spare the proud. They, too, are subject to the laws of the universe, and in the end, they must face the same fate as the lowliest of souls.

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The battlefield of life is harsh and unforgiving. The strong and the weak alike must face the consequences of their actions. In the end, there is no escape from the fate that awaits us all. Whether we are rich or poor, powerful or weak, we are all subject to the same forces, and in the end, we must all face the same end.

As the winds howl and the rains pour, the cries of the lost souls fill the air. Their suffering is endless, as they drift aimlessly in the vast ocean of time. And yet, even in the depths of their despair, they hold onto the hope that one day, they will find peace, that their suffering will be ended by the grace of the Buddha.

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The rich and powerful may have everything they desire in life, but in death, they are no different from the poor and destitute. Their wealth, their power, their prestige—all of it is left behind, as they are swept away by the currents of time. In the end, all that matters is the journey of the soul, and the hope that it will find peace and release from the cycle of suffering.

In life, they may have been kings and queens, but in death, they are all the same. The winds blow, the rains fall, and the souls of the departed drift along, lost in the vastness of the universe.

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The journey of life is fraught with hardship, with struggle, and with pain. But in the end, it is not the riches or the power that matter. It is the soul's journey, its search for peace, that defines us all. Whether we are kings or beggars, the end is the same, and all must face it with grace and humility.

For those who have passed, there is only the hope that they may find peace in the arms of the Buddha, that their suffering will be ended, and that they will be released from the cycle of life and death.

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The young ones, those who have not yet tasted the bitterness of life, are also caught in the same web of fate. Their cries echo through the night, as they too are swept away by the currents of time, lost in the vast ocean of existence. They too must face the inevitable, and their journey, like all others, will end in the same place.

The great and the small, the rich and the poor, all must face the same end. Their lives, no matter how grand or humble, are but fleeting moments in the vast tapestry of time. In the end, it is not what we possess or what we achieve that matters, but how we face the journey of life and death.

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The teachings of the Buddha remind us that all things are impermanent, that the world we live in is but a shadow. In the end, it is the soul's journey that defines us, and it is only through the grace of the Buddha that we can find peace and release from the endless cycle of suffering. May we all find the strength to face the journey with courage and humility, knowing that in the end, we are all one.

This work, often referred to as the "Văn chiêu h ồ n" or "V ă n t ế chi ê u h ồ n," has been a significant part of Vietnamese literature, reflecting the struggles and the inevitable fate that binds all beings. It was later included as additional reading in the Vietnamese high school literature curriculum of 1990-2006, shedding light on the inescapable nature of life and death, and the importance of compassion in navigating the trials of existence.

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