Poems by Duong Khau Luong /Vietnam

 

Poems by Duong Khau Luong from Vietnam
Ethnic Tay
Born: 1964
Hometown: Ban Hon, Banh Trach, Ba Be, Bac Kan
Currently, he is the Chairman of Bac Kan Provincial Literature and Arts Association
PUBLISHED: 10 poetry collections
AWARDS: 9 central and local awards




Mountains playing football

The sun is like a ball
Two mountain friends play together
The friend from the east mountain kicks the ball
The ball flies into the sky

Just one game is done
The day fades away
The friend from the western mountain leaves
Waiting until tomorrow to play again.


My village

My village is nestled in the mountains
There are only a few houses
Running around for a while
It's the whole village.

My village is small
But our hearts are generous
Whether regular or unfamiliar guests
All are welcomed.

The village has four roofs
Spreading its wings of happiness
The stairs are always waiting
Friends come to visit.

Please come up
And visit my village.


Then singing

Is Then made of wind?
So singing and flying away
Is Then made of flowers?
So every word is beautiful
Then voice is so sweet.

More fragrant than wild honey
Hearing the sound of Then, longing to hold it
Tucking Then into my pocket
Bringing it home and listening forever.



To call cows to the barn

Come back, cows!
Let the barn not be empty
Come back to stay warm
Don't sleep in the forest

Lest you get wet in the rain
Leaches might cling to your legs
The striped tiger might capture you
Come back, cows!



Squirrel and dracontomelon tree

A squirrel climbs up a dracontomelon tree
While picking dracontomelons, it sings:
- Hey dracontomelon tree!
You have ripe dracontomelons

You smell so fragrant
I eat dracontomelons
I drop your seeds back to the root
Tomorrow, they grow dracontomelon trees again.


Low mountain

The mountain is still small
It is low
But the mountain is remarkable
In its ability to accomplish many tasks.

The low mountain aids the mother mountain
Carrying streams and planting trees
Weaving the tapestry of the mountains
Each day, becoming greener.

The small mountain assists the father mountain
Shielding against storms, wind, and fog
In he mountains, across four seasons
Birds sing and dance.

Yet, one might pity the mountain
Standing steadfast all year round
Unable to wander like me
Attending school to learn and read.


Throwing cotton ball gamein Spring

In a high pillar of cotton ball game
A red bullseye circle
Resembling the crimson sun
Hovering atop the peak
Awaiting the arrival of the cotton balls

Your cotton ball ascends
Mine descends
Like a flock of swallows
Circling, seeking the bullseye

In skillful hands
Cotton balls glide through the red circle
The bullseye acts as the gateway
Welcoming the fortune of spring.

Once a year, during Tet,
The cotton ball throwing game commences,
No matter where you roam, recall
The spring festival in our hometown.

(Translated into English by HFT)