THE MUDDY FIELD
That day, though long ago,
seemed to be right there.
At twenty, entering the adult life,
the spirit was high,
the breeze slight,
from the four corners of the earth
the only sight was the new
horizon, spectacular and wide.
In ecstasy, how could I suspect
the stagnant mud lying in ambush
at the bottom of the lake.
At twenty, the age of innocent
and fearlessness,
with farfetched ideals
as beautiful as a poem, wishing,
dreaming,
expecting something gigantic…
Then on an early fall day
Autumn came back.
The naiveté at twenty,
thought the gleaming starred-flag
would bring splendors
to the native land.
Unaware that it was the onset of a
treachery that brutally demolished
the old and the new.
The sounds of destruction
devastated the nation.
The sun, the symbol of life,
spewed out puddles of red blood.
Oh, how I mourned the ruination
of the nurtured rice harvests.
It was an Autumn when the flood
turned into an ocean full of mud.
The savage red waves, one by
one, drowned the past,
flushed away the future.
Spattered with blood, blinded with
tears, covered with sweat and
frothy spittle,
Upon one’s returning:
“Who’s that? Do I know you?”
Terrified, dumbfounded, numb.
History abruptly made
a complete U-turn,
back to the age when
the beasts reigned openly,
where thousands of arenas sprung
up under the sun.
And right at the time when the
earth and the sky turned pale
the gang of treacherous murderers
raised their glasses celebrating
victory.
The dark melody of poverty
and misfortune permeated
the refrain urged partings,
and the unjust departure to prisons
from the cities, to the countryside
up on the mountains, down by the
sea, all shared the same destiny.
In the swarm, the reef banks,
the forest,
human corpses were used to feed
the trees.
The supreme tenet in the
muddy field
was to betray your teachers and
doublecross your friends
and an absolute, unlimited loyalty
to the party, to your group,
to the sacred leader.
A grain of rice, a kernel of corn
suddenly turned into
chains and manacles,
happiness and misfortune are
doled out exclusively by the Party.
And with time,
the face turned sallow,
the skin pallid
upon one’s returning:
“Who’s that? Do I know you?”
Oh, flowers of all kinds
tremble in fear!
Miserable in the field full of mud
are the straws and reeds
emaciated, wilted, forlorn.
And when the sun comes up
The flowers might have withered
and no longer existed.
I sit here, still,
with my mind wandering,
ignoring the pesky mosquitoes.
Everywhere, darkness spreads,
out there far on the field, is it
a man or a buffalo still toiling?
Goosebumps surface on my skin,
the curse of having to feed and
clothe oneself spares no one.
The thoughts bring me to the
ancient tale between the Angel of
Death and the old lumberjack.
I look up trying to see if there’s a
pagoda somewhere.
The pagoda has become
a chimera.
The wicked bird of doubt,
with its large wings spread,
hunts down the ancestors’ tombs,
churches and temples disturbed.
The boat of righteousness
flounders,
savagely the waves roar,
the wind shrieks.
Silently the dead weep,
the living sob.
The face of the earth turns dark
purple with the coagulated blood.
The treacherous flag
flies high at the time the Yin
soars and the Yang sags.
Idols wildly pivot
their images and
identities change.
Pác-Bó cave turns
into a dwelling for the beasts.
The old Uncle Ho morphes
into Uncle Sly Fox.
The tire-rubbered sandals
a hundred times heavier than
the ones made of iron.
The yellow khaki uniform,
its yellow’s as sickly as the
eyes’ color of the poorest citizen.
Evilish, knavish, treacherous!
They torment and rob the people
down to their bare hands.
From the day the demon prince
gleefully stood before
the Party Flag, solemnly
reciting the early-day proclamation
to the gathering party members
who pledged to spend their lives
demolishing the thousands
of years of cultural legacy
bequeathed by their ancestors
in the pipe dream of building
the kind of nation
benumbed, lumbering and
never wavering.
And they opened the cages
out came the beasts with
the human faces.
In the countryside, where tombs
dotted the landscape,
the dead were in high spirits,
for they saw that it was less hellish
in hell than it was on earth.
For human lives were lower than
those of earthworms and crickets.
The eyes looked upward,
And saw the blue sky,
but the legs were trapped in the
pungent, stinking muddy mass,
the devils stood guard, ruthless.
While barely had enough to eat
still they toiled in copious sweat.
The straws, the reeds had grown
tired of hope and accepted their
destiny – a life amid the gray mud.
The drearier life was, the more
the king of evils rejoiced non-stop.
And step by step,
I am no longer myself
but a painful decimated chunk
harboring the dreams that have
become stale and wretched.
If I drench in sweat,
my sweat will mix
with my lungs’ blood.
But the meager ration of rice
the Party doles out
does not give the body a chance
to gain back its strength.
Night after night, I have vowed
to train my soul to lay down
the sorrow, pain and regret
to supress the overpowering
hatred which, day and night,
torments me, making my body
exhausted and heated.
But how could one lay down
and supress
how could one be mute and deaf
when one has not lived long
enough?
Just like when one hasn’t fully
fathomed the depth of love,
how can one know of hatred?
Only when the balloon’s deflated
it will let men and
destiny trample on.
And the oceans with the great
roaring waves will only calm
when exhausted with the storms.
I sit there, listening to
the slow pace of time,
with my soul soaking up
the moon-lit landscape.
The dew is descending
on the empty field,
the scenery is cold, foggy,
gloom and melancholy.
At the distant shores where there
are music and lyrics under sunlight
if someone thinks his life is full of
bitterness, come here and try a
taste of the muddy field
so his stomach, his brain, heart,
tongue and throat will be able to
differentiate the sweeet and the
sour, the joy and the grief.
In the ocean of merriment, there’s
no appreciation for a laugh.
For someone whose life
is without tempest,
even the vastness of the
universe is naught.
A crow’s sad, forlorn cry
drips on the field.
I become fully awake and return to
the nightmare.
The mosquito swarms - callous,
indifferent, noisy in flights -
are the favorite sons of stagnancy
and darkness.
They have grown up in the
blackness of night for so long
that they mistook
it for light.
The toads and frogs are still
singing the treacherous songs
in unison
vilifying the sun,
and flattering the black night.
The thin straws and reeds,
even at a wisp of the wind,
kowtow and bow their heads.
The color of the vast open space
around is that of barren and death.
The muddy field is weary,
Silently the column of ants
marches to and fro.
Is this a real life or a nightmare?
Why is it that men and animals
look so much alike?
The shirttail is pulled out to shield
his hanging belly full of fat!
Traveling in style in a “Zim”.
Cajoling in one moment,
threatening in the next
nodding his head, in sync with a
heap of moldy straw and trash.
The plants and trees -
inane, stupid and submissive -
lie there, waiting for the day they
will rot and decompose,
ignoring the constant plaintive
pleas full of anguish from the
gaunt and distressed birds.
That wooden bunch will have to
wait for the storms to come
for them to uproot themselves
and stand up.
But it looks as if God has forsaken
this pallid muddy field,
and me, for I have been sitting
here, miserable and wilted,
casting my weary eyes upon
the blue sky with hope.
All around, the frogs are still
hollering in chorus
to destroy hearts, to harm brains,
making the youngsters
rejoice killing,
and the elders content with
the tragic deaths and losses,
in short, inflicting a voluntary
parting.
But why is it that the Autumn sun
brings the arctic air?
They march with arms, yet
uncertain, nervous,
the Party eggs them on, causing
dispersion and suffering.
Tears fall incessantly from
families, either poor or rich,
hit the bottom of the scorching
caldron and then evaporate.
The Party screams in madness,
with a bone stuck in its throat,
its voice hoarse, its ferocity
just a bravado.
The totalitarian iron net
is cast.
It’s brutal, wrongful, unjust,
bitter
the pooorest citizen swallow
their fate.
From the barren mountains to the
busy city streets,
from the remote islands to the vast
rice fields,
the yellow police uniform is
ubiquitous, the greenness yields.
Life is wretched and torn in the
muddy field
Yet bombs and bullets still fight
to take claim of the miserable
skeletal body that is left.
The scene of ten men going away
only two or three come back
the scene where nine girls fighting
each other to win just one man
is happening and will prevail
as long as the Party holds
the future in its grip.
The straws and reeds,
having been used to sigh in
distress, now look up at the sky
and ask: why?
The moon fades, the stars dimmed
The unwanted dawn
slowly emerges amid the fog.
A miserable and wilted dawn that
pushes the whole country
down to the ground.
Listen to this one veritable truth
this is the most torturous dawn
on earth.
It announces a day without a
single minute
to relax, to seek comfort,
to let
people raise their heads.
This dawn, with its perpetual
monochrome,
is to presage the total exhaustion.
The people, no, the
wretched machines
unoiled, unlubricated,
are prematurely broken.
Still, you must keep up your
cheerful attitude,
for the cries and the laments will
terrify the devils.
The crimes they committed are so
vicious and savage
if revealed, who would let them
live?
So, they are apprehensive,
jumpy and restless,
they spy on and
imprison the voices.
To the world, where the horizons
are bright and radiant,
please understand that the silence
in this place, on the muddy field,
is a voice full of torment
and despair.
When will the treacherous Autumn
be hauled to the pyre
and burned in the raging
flame of summer!
I have been awaiting the chorus of
thousands of cicada,
in the joyful prelude to
announce that summer
everywhere is on the march
to demolish autumn and winter
to restore the rosy color,
and to open the cages
for the birds of mishaps.
But at the moment, the cold
autumn has a free reign,
murdering the greenness,
and the stench permeates the air.
They use blood
to stanch the tears,
to squeeze out the sweat,
to silence the people
in hope that everywhere is mute
amid the poverty and misery
so they can freely play
the diabolic tune, misleading
the people in the faraway places
and hounding the ones nearby.
Oh, God! If there really is a God,
why are they being spared
for so long?
Sometimes, I imagine the sound of
life riding the red waves, coming
through the wind.
All the dreams and hopes long
thought dead rise again in tears,
woe, and agony.
Out there, life is in full blast,
why is it that this place’s forever
silent in a tomb?
Bitterness and anger strain to rise,
how miserable!
Space, please disintegrate and
shatter into pieces
so time will no longer torment
the human race,
so the gorillas and apes will stop
cheering
in the oppressing darkness.
Oh, the doomsday, when it comes,
will be the day this painful heart
is swept away with joy!
Oh wind, please do not tell the
tales of continents and seas,
of the faraway horizons that I’ve
long coveted
where the warm snow falls,
and people are kind-hearted
or of the fairy island that glistens
with pearls and jades.
Oh wind, please have pity on the
people who are nailed down on
this sorrowful coordinate,
the hope for the faraway horizons
is woefully worn out.
Everywhere the shadows of
the human buffaloes toil
in the stagnant mud,
in the tunnels, in the factories that
wear down bones and tendons
and yet, at night, on Satan’s
decree , drag themselves with an
empty stomach to hear the evils
who masquerade as angels and
make plans on sucking the blood
and grinding the bones but saying
they are building a paradise
in hope of recruiting new slaves.
I don’t know
how much
the sycophantic toads
get paid to extol
the devils’ terrifying
paradise
with a deafening tune at night.
Hey, the devils’ rice and fish
are full of bones,
and beware!
It’s hard to swallow.
Go ahead, sing! But if you
go off-key even a bit, the Party
will toss your entire family into hell.
Day after day, month after month,
the disgraced autumn still
stretches over half of the
Trường Sơn mountain range.
Even though we are smothered
by the slippery mud,
the human inner force
will prevail over all,
and sooner or later, will rise up,
knock down and bury the devils
at the bottom of the muddy field.
This will be the grave of the
autumn in disgrace.
Summer and spring will stand up
in glory.
Although we, the unfortunates,
might not see
summer and spring, our lives
would make the human race sweat
when thinking about the devils’
bloody red flag.
The sun‘s rising,
my soul’s anguished,
I’m anxious to sever the rotten part
on the long-stretched body
of time.
But known for its pigheadedness,
time coldly resists.
And the days stagger on, bitter,
humiliated, miserable.
I want to scream in the silence
thick and black
for people from thousands of
different places to hear
and then flock over here,
and help close the muddy field up
and exterminate the venomous
mosquitoes which, day and night,
annihilate the red corpuscles.
But buried deep
in the mud,
the cry for help is wheezing and
feeble in the throat.
Meanwhile, the treacherous lies
coming from thousands of toads
still reverberate,
pulling the wool over people’s
eyes here and faraway, all over
the continents and oceans.
I know that, so I can’t let
the inert time lift me up.
Writhingly, wailfully I find
my own way out.
Even if I would have to pay with
my bones and flesh,
I can’t be content lying low and
breathe in the terrifying stinking
stench of black mud.
All around, the devils hide
themselves to spy on us
with their guns ready to fire.
I , even though dejected
and fractured, do not
fear the fateful bullet
that would relieve me of the
perpetual agony,
and to the sky of oblivion,
my soul would soar.
Even though the iron curtain does
not have a gaping hole,
using my teeth
I’ll tear up a link
even though the devil could catch
me and toss me into a hot caldron
I would plunge ahead
without regret.
Deep down in the mud,
the human buffaloes toil,
chasing the sun,
per the chief devil’s decree,
the little demons are out on the
streets, urging, spying on
the sounds of anguish.
Hey you, why is your face not
radiant?
Hey you, how dare you sigh?
You people have to
work twice as hard,
so the evil king wiil rejoice and
live to a hundred!
While millions of people are drowning,
I wish that the world will quickly
rise together and smash the head
of the red, extremely dangerous snake
who was born and grew on deceit,
secreted the venom of hatred,
and faked its achievement.
The name of zealous patriotism
was cunningly used;
it beseeched China and Russia
without a shred of shame.
Gaining enough strength, it
revealed itself a cheat,
raised its head, flicked its tongue,
bit the necks of its citizens,
turned the tombs upside down
ruined lives, wrecked faiths,
sapped streams and rivers.
Oh, the French creeps the people
had thrown out,
sparing no blood,
are remembered with rueful regret.
Thanks to the fangs and claws of
the beasts, the colonizing grip
seemed almost tender.
Patriotism, having been conned, is
still lying there, licking its wound,
how much more the demonic party
hope to score?
Even if you try to evoke
names of the ancestral patriots,
the people have had it
with the farce
called the revolutionary war.
What they gained were mourning
headbands and crutches,
but lost the brightness of life.
The party says silence, says talk
says cry, says laugh,
says starve, says work; if
someone as much as complains,
the tyranny would put him in jail
till his bones crumble into dust.
Is it the reward for
his sweat and blood
for those few thousand days
fighting the French in years past?
Oh, how shameless, how cunning;
the people have already wised up
and the demon’s bag of tricks no
longer works.
The dark violence flaunts its
white fangs,
rings the barracks and prisons
with steel fences.
Still, the ruthless power
is powerless facing
the utmost disgust coming from
the hearts of the people.
For the ones who pretend that
they are blind, dumb and mute
but whose hearing is perfect
and whose vision is farsighted
have already seen clearly the
demise of the muddy field.
Although the red snake would
have had its skin shed, it
would not be able to escape the
immense net of justice.
The divine reasons and
righteousness are fathomless
their time of death, the demons
would never suspect!
And then,
when the wind rages,
ruthless devils, where would
you hide from the fiery storms,
where would you cling to?
You might get so hysterical,
try frantically to prepare yourself,
and together you would make
plans but it will be the lowly straws
and reeds that will burn you and
turn you into gray ashes.
The Marxist doctrine, a dreary
ghost that has no root on our
ancestral land,
has been tearing the country apart
it’s time that all of its disciples face
the firing squad.
Yet you still enjoy the daily feasts,
for you think the tall and robust
trees have been felled
and there’s nothing left to fear.
Do you know that the straws
and reeds, aflame, will erupt more
than hickories and elms.
And the people with
only skin and bones
will spring up with power and
overturn everything.
The flower of life the Party
crushed, hoping for its death.
But no, its scent is still permeating
across the nation.
At the bamboo groves, street’s
corners, thoroughfares,
the beloved fragrance still
discreetly lingers.
If all the souls living in agony
would not bow their heads, and
refuse to accept the life of misery,
if we all could reach a decision
on a path,
a path of blood,
a path of salvation.
Though our bones would be
crushed, flesh pulverized
by the sacred flame that
punishes the devious evils.
Though we’d die without seeing
the flowers bloom
we’d have lived a life
without shame,
we’d have lived a life
with a heroic glory.
If we could together agree
to use our fresh blood to nourish
the flowers,
which, permeated with blood, shall
flourish in all places and
thousands of buds would blossom.
The flowers of joy, of liberty
which are priceless,
would only bloom with the help of
vengeful blood.
The country has fallen down
into a spike-trap ,
it will take more than one day
to get out of it.
Like a sailboat at sea
needs to await the forceful wind.
To destroy chains and shackles,
it takes the power of a hammer.
As for us, we need to put our
corpses together to build a raft,
use the gush of our blood to
create the waves
in order to rise above the
vicious muddy field,
to grasp the rescue pole up high.
With the guns and swords
and help supplied by friends,
we will blow up the mountains,
part the clouds
and await the fierce storms
to enable us to enter the caves
to demolish evils,
reclaim the earth and the sky,
take back the greenness,
and the light of life.
But, it’s a long process and life’s
short, alas!
The silent wish persists
fervently inside me,
I await something like the
thunderous crash of the high sea,
something to enliven the hearts
that have been dead for sometime
inside the coffins -
our lowly, knavish bodies.
That booming sound will spread
to the horrifying prisons and
concentration camps and will
make the beastly enemies think,
restoring the faith for all that
almost gave up on the future.
The bunch of thin reeds, dried-up
straws and wilted weeds
is thrilled, clamoring,
expecting.
That sound will bring about
the storms and gales all over
the miserable, dreary oceans.
Thunders and lightnings will tear
up the black night, announcing the
enemies’ death.
I have been expecting a vociferous
roar like that of the high seas,
my people also share
the same wish.
I listen
it seems like that noise has begun.
But I know well that is the
roar of a long-stretched history.
Therefore, though the
dark night is an abyss
and seems infinite above my head,
I still pray,
still live and still believe
that dawn will come, and indeed,
coming it will be.
While the immoral flag’s still
flapping in the sky,
I still dream of an ultimate truth
that’ll come and chase away the
darkness on this earth
in the glorious,
almighty, sacred halo.
Myriad rumbles will shatter
the quiet sky and
announce that the thunderous
dawn’s ready to blast.
Oh! behold the overwhelming sky
filled with wrath
the overwhelming sky filled with
immeasurable agony
that has been oppressed
miserably for eons.
From the shameful bottom
of the muddy field
the rumbles will erupt like
waves roar, waterfalls cascade
and the evils will meet their end.
Their corpses will litter the streets,
strew across towns,
their blood will blot the sky.
The triumphant trumpet of
freedom is all over the place,
inaugurating the new dawn,
restoring lives.
Oh, I’ll live and I’ll wait
for the day millions of hearts
explode and blow up the sky.
Night on the muddy field, the
falling dew makes small sounds
Translated by Lê Tuấn
(1982)
owls hoot, moon casts down,
melancholy…
(1982)
owls hoot, moon casts down,
melancholy…
Lê Tu ấ n dị ch sang Anh Ng ữ
(1982)
owls hoot, moon casts down,
melancholy…
Lê Tuấn dịch sang Anh Ngữ
(1982)