Tìm bài trả lời thơ

The sad song for Murad
Poet Murad Sudani, President of the Palestine Writers’ Association

1.
No need to know the reason
No need to stop and ask why
No need to hear the whispers of threats
No need to think of what would happen next
Only know that I was here
In front of the barbed wire fence
And the gun barrel
And he stepped toward me
Murad!

His footsteps resound on the ground
Underneath the sad clouds
Flowing on the sky above his country’s border
Bringing with them the thunders, the rains
And bringing the cries
Underneath the olive trees along the road
Murad!

2.
The trick is still going on
In the party of the politicians
With the ones who lost their ways
In the tangled history
And the ones who stand outside the darkness
Outside the tears, outside the bloodshed
Screaming their judgement
Murad!


But I was here
I am walking on your country, Murad!
I am listening to the song of your nation, Murad!
I see the olive trees, the palm trees growing
On rocky soil
Murad!

I see the tears
Soak the mountains
I hear the sheep
Burn the sunset with their scream
Murad!

3.
Last night you didn’t sleep
Murad!
Walked on the small street
Going on and on
You walked through the horizon

Last night you prayed
Murad!
Last night you cried
Last night you sang
And I heard the echo
From the mountain wind
The sad history sigh

Last night you kneeled down
Murad!
Your hands opened
One hand filled with words
One hand with blood pouring.

Look up in the sky

Among the deep green of the olive branch
Are guard stations
Bullet-proof vests and machine guns
The gun barrel - a deep black eye
Never closes
Watching the meals
Watching the poems
Watching the prayers
And eve watching the whispers
Of the man and woman
On the bed filled with darkness
That didn’t want to be heard

I use a software to erase
The barbed wire fence
On the picture taken with my cellphone
With a sign
“If you cross, you will be shot”

But when I look up in the sky
I see the reflection of the barbed wire fence
On the white clouds.

Baptism on Jordan River

1.
I splash water from Jordan River
For my own baptism
When I step up from the river bank
I see the road in front of me
The sins’ shadow standing in line to the horizon
Calling me, mesmerizing me
And threatening

2.
Someone told me
“The water is dirty, why would you wash with it?”

No water can wash off the sins
It has to be tears
If tears cannot wash them
We have to wash with our own blood

3.
Many have come
Politicians, intellectuals
Poets, the disables
And murderers
Submerge in the stream
Then have the illusion
That their sins were washed clean

4.
Then there are many
Came to this river
To get baptized
Then come back
To commit sins on another river.

Paradise Lake

The purple-flowering trees
Blooming in Ramallah (*)
Those are not trees
They are the Paradise Lake
Appears on a summer noon

Awake all night
Remember the eyes of Dalal Abu
As blue as Paradise Lake
Looking back as a goodbye
In the sunset
On the street named after Mother Teresa

Dalal Abu, Dalal Abu
Did you come from the horizon
With a smile
Ripe olive-colored lips
Disappearing in the house’s darkness

Dalal Abu, Dalal Abu
Please don’t cry
Alone in the dark
I want you to sing
In the sad sunset

The flower season will be over
Paradise Lake disappear
But Dalal Abu stays
Ripe olive-colored lips
Fill my dreams.

About an old candle stick
(For Ambassador Saadi Salama)

I tried to buy a beautiful old candle stick from an old Palestinian Muslim woman who was selling antiques on the side of Jordan River. But she did not sell it. I asked her why she put it out with the other antiques and she said she brought it so that it would always be by her side. Then I learn that the candle stick is from her son’s house that was destroyed by rockets. Her son died with his wife and child. I held the candle stick for a long time as if I held the bodies and a strange feeling overcame me. She asked me where I came from. I said Vietnam. She let out a light gasp and repeated “Vietnam.” At the end, she told me to take the candle stick home if I wanted to and did not take any money. Sometimes I light a candle with that candle stick.

The light in the eyes of the candle stick’s owner is off
Darkness fills the house of memories
The stories of the suffering mother
Never stop being told

One night, I light up a candle on that old candle stick
Suddenly someone calls me
No, it is a cry
I turn around and see
My shadow on the wall
Is pulling my shirt

Prayer for Sadeel
(Sadeel Turkman, a Palestinian girl who was shot dead in a battle between the local gun men and the Israeli military I June 2023 in West Bank city, Jenin, Palestine)

The olive flowers fall in the sunrise
Blood and hair of Sadeel pour
In every roads to class
I see her shadow in the horizon

-Sadeel, Sadeel, honey
The grape fields wither in your hair
The olive flowers’ color fade in your eyes
And the dates spill their sweet syrup from your lips

I walk on the street
I see Sadeel everywhere
Lying as if she was sleeping
And the notebooks
In the classroom
Open to pages of hair and blood

– Sadeel, Sadeel, honey
Olive flowers will bloom again
Dates will have sweet syrup again
The sun will rise again
On the ripening grapes

But Sadeel can’t go to class
And a poem in her book
Will have to wait till her next life.

The swallows of Ramallah

Fly from sunrise to sunset
The swallows of Ramallah
Seem unable to find a place to land

I walk on the land
On the path the Gods used walk
The roads after more than 2000 years
Are no longer rocky
But are filled with destinies
Unfortunate and sorrowful

Instead of the nail holes
On Jesus’ body
Are bullet holes
On the chests of the innocents
And the two lungs
Of the deads
Are still filled with the words of Freedom

The swallows of Ramallah
Frying across the sky
Those are the souls of the deads
Turned into swing needles
Patiently patching the torn sky

Under olive shade

Pushing the dirt and rock to stand here
Under the blue sky
The olive trees on mountains and hills in Palestine
Fabulous, proud, and agonizing

I step under the leaves’ shade
The wind sings like bells
And the words of the Gods
And the whispers of the deads
A road to the horizon
Olive flowers bloom and blood shed

Someone said
A day in Heaven equals 1000 years on earth
And the Gods
Perhaps need to rest
While they’re sleeping
Next to them, the olive trees still bloom
And under the olive trees’ roots
Blood still spill
Waiting for them to wake up

Anh nhớ, em yêu ơi, anh nhớ
Nhớ mái tóc bồng của em óng ánh
Chẳng thanh thản chút nào khi phải xa em
Một nỗi buồn man mác trong anh.

Những đêm mùa thu anh còn nhớ
Trong bóng đêm tiếng xào xạc bạch dương
Mong làm sao những ngày thu ngắn lại
Để trăng soi hai đứa mình lâu hơn.

Anh còn nhớ, bên anh có lần em thủ thỉ:
“Sẽ qua đi những năm tháng tuổi xanh,
Anh yêu ơi, anh có quên em lúc ấy,
Mãi mãi anh quên em bên người con gái khác”.

Hôm nay, hoa li-pa trên cành đang nở
Gợi nhớ trong anh những tình cảm ngày xưa,
Nhớ khi ngắt những cánh hoa dạo ấy
Anh rắc nhẹ êm lên lọn tóc em xoăn.

Và trái tim ta bỗng dưng nguội lạnh,
Buồn đau khi yêu người con gái khác,
Dường như đây là một tình yêu tiểu thuyết
Khi bên người khác ta nhắc nhở cùng nhau…

Chàng dịu hiền, ghen tuông, lo lắng
Từng yêu em như ánh nắng đất trời
Để chim trắng khúc ca xưa không hót nữa
Chim ký ức của em, chàng giết mất rồi…

Bước vào phòng chàng nói lúc hoàng hôn:
“Hãy yêu anh, làm thơ, cười vui nhé!”
Một mình em vùi chôn chim nhỏ bé
Phía sau giếng tròn, chôn lấp nỗi đau thương.

Em hứa với chàng rằng em không khóc
Bởi tim em hoá đá đã lâu rồi
Hình như em thấy mọi nơi, mọi lúc
Tiếng chim ký ức đâu đây âu yếm, ngọt ngào...