A collection of poems by Tran Chan Uy

Village ball

The buffalo ambled along like a sage.
I pricked up my ears to hear the school bell ring, signaling the end of classes.
The young shepherds lead the way back to the mountain village in the evening.
The sound of the flute drifted wistfully along the village road.
Pure white cosmos flowers by the wild grass
And the betel quid forms a red line amidst the green canopy.
The old village courtyard is covered with fallen frangipani flowers.
People from the past will never return.
White clouds drift towards the mountains, carried by the wind.
The old banyan tree, with its leafy branches, gazes into the distance.
Ginger flowers are gathered around a hot charcoal fire.
The dragonfly hastily sews the twilight glow.
Silently reflecting down onto the small river.
The village's shadow has stood for millennia, with its rows of betel nut trees.
Misty cliffside ancient temple
A house was faintly visible, hidden behind the clouds.
As the sun sets, the daylight fades.
With slender shoulders, the village girl carries the burden of youthful spring.
We return and stop at a deserted dock.
I walk the familiar path alone, lost in the depths of the past.
The river silently awaits the return of those from the past.
Hiding the bitter coldness amidst the flowing water.
The beautiful young woman of that year
I've never returned to this riverside.
The village's image suddenly blurred in my bitter eyes.
A bitter, painful tear lingers on my lips.

Return to Thanh Vinh

There's something complicated going on with Vinh City.
On my return, the street was so deserted and gloomy.
Without the familiar faces around, I suddenly feel like a stranger.
A glass of wine filled with sadness, with no one to share it with.
We search for ourselves along the long streets.
Mr. Thach Quy* went towards the mountains.
Reflecting on human life, it's no different from a grain of dust.
He bid farewell to the city and returned to his hometown.
In the middle of Vinh City, we feel like lost souls.
I want to go to the train station market to find Mr. Tung Bach**
The night was late, lingering with the flickering wick.
He raises and sets his wine glass, alone.
The wind rustles through Vinh City on this late winter night.
The bus is late, is anyone else getting off at the stop?
A life of wandering, so many appointments missed.
I return to Vinh City for a solitary drink.
I am left alone with the Lam River.
On an unannounced night, the crescent moon flickered faintly.
The river has flowed ceaselessly for a thousand years.
I walk alone in silence with the evening stars.
Nghe An welcomes its son who has been away for a long time back home.
In the cold wind, the sad street rustles with fallen leaves.
Without friends, we become strangers.
The wine in Vinh City evokes a bitter, sorrowful feeling.
------———
*Poet Thach Quy
**Poet Tung Bach**

Six-eight verse at the beginning of the East

Winter has arrived at the bridge.
Dewdrops, heavy with sunlight, cling to the tips of the wild grass.
The winter rain has wet my eyebrows.
The departing person has left behind the footprints of farewell.
I return to take refuge in the shadow of your eyelashes.
Looking for those teary eyes, what do I see at the rainy harbor?
The red silk threads hang down, covering the sparse fence.
Returning to my old village brought me so much sorrow.
Why worry so much about the rain?
The old brown coat is now gone, stirring up a pang in my heart.
The thin wick sends the cold across the river.
I lean against the bamboo stalk, hoping for your return.
Wild daisies bloom white along the embankment.
The sound of the church bells still captivates the heart.
We return to retrieve the reflection from the bottom of the river.
Blue eyes drowned, the harbor deserted.
At the end of life, a dream fades away.
The boat leaves the dock, departing from the shore in farewell.
Looking at the water's surface, what does it say?
My heart is broken, and the reeds are a vibrant green.
Oh, why does it hurt so much?
We carry the pain of longing within us.
A thousand years of entanglement with love.
Even after a hundred lifetimes, I will still be amazed by the human condition.

La River

I have crossed many rivers.
Throughout his wandering life.
Each river sings its own song.
The poignant echoes of the countryside.
The La River brings me back home.
From the paths of wandering.
Leaving behind countless rapids and waterfalls
The river is like a silk ribbon connecting the sea with the forest.
The song of the flowing river still evokes deep emotions.
The voice of the waves between the banks of the floodwaters.
I am like a grain of salt, silently precipitating.
The river's waters carry the salty taste of my longing for my village.
The bridge made of your embroidered sash that you once built for me to cross.
A night of missed appointments, a river of missed opportunities for young women.
To let the moon melt more than once.
The church's shadow slanted down into the flowing stream.
The La River meanders around the alluvial plain.
I missed several rapeseed flower seasons.
I also went through a period of being a young woman.
The river flows relentlessly, leaving the ferry landing desolate in the evening.
The sunset was like a burning fire.
A fiery red expanse of youthful sky.
The river harbors its silent resentment.
The waves carried away the months of waiting for each other.
I returned to my old village of betel nut flowers.
It bloomed in a season without a promise.
The river and you are not walking the same path as me.
A thousand years from now, the cold wind will blow, leaving the dock deserted.
The river flows silently, all alone.