The clouds float off,
We stay behind,
The cuoc birds cry by the river docks.

They cry because the traps are dangerous.
Weeds float on the water.
I silently call out the names
Of tables, chairs, old clothing,
And suddenly my youth returns,
Looking at me in confusion,
Kites decorated like tufts of hair on a child's head
More joyful than the source of joy.
Rice crisps ballooning in the market
Cover some of the sadness.
I sit and call out the names of cards from the tam cuc game:
Chariots, artillery, horses on distant roads.
Only the cries of the cuoc birds remain.

Cuoc birds have been crying since before they were named.
My father mixed earth to pave the road.
From clay
He sculpted the kitchen god, a bowl.
The wine drinkers left one by one.
My father held up the bowl
As if holding a part of his life
Dried into clay.

The cuoc birds cry in the far away fields.

Cuoc birds have cried since the day bamboo leaves were too
young to be woven into mats.
People settled on the wet soil,
Began like brown roots,
Created everything to feed each other,
Hoping their children would one day look up with pride.
In the dark they relied on lamps,
Storm lights fueled by peanut oil,
Lights often stolen by the wind.

The cuoc birds cry in the far away fields.

They've cried since the day you learned to bow
to your mother and father.
Following the red silk thread,
You came to me in marriage.
Love with its many broken strands and retied knots.
We asked the jungle for a small bed,
Clay for a small tea pot.
Just one life, but so much struggle.
You gripped the bed, clenched the mat waiting for me.
You avoided the faces of handsome men
And waited
Hoping only that I would return.
A torn shirt still smelled good.
A small cupboard with a few pairs of chopsticks.
I thought that after the war there would be nothing but happiness,
We had waited for each other diligently.
But it's not true, my love, the cuoc birds cry otherwise.

* * *

Something makes the cuoc birds cry as though screaming.
I lost two brothers,
Both very young.
This morning two neighbors came over.
Each time after a funeral.
Everyone's soul is shriveled,
Everyone's heart mournful.
I thought there were no bad people left.
I thought no amount of kindness for one another would be enough.
But it's not true, Heaven, the cuoc birds cry otherwise.

The well laments that so many have wavering feet.
The garden laments: there are snails looking up at the sky,
After flower season the butterflies go away.
I sit, said as a torn lotus leaf.

What tortured cries from the cuoc birds at noon.

Sitting, I sadly count my fingers
Back and forth, all ten,
Back and forth until late afternoon.

Death pushes us to one side.
False fame pushes us to one side.
We must cross many oceans to see a smile.

But soon as we see a smile,
We hear the cuoc birds again.