Song from the great forest

Every time I feel tired, I return to the forest to feel my heart melt, soften in the midst of passionate emotions. I follow the winding path that seems to be inlaid with reddish-brown strokes bearing the footprints of generations of people. The old woman carries a basket on her back leading a cow along the mountainside, the barefooted child, her blond hair exposed to the sun and wind, the girl smiles brightly like a wild flower in the morning sun. They chatter to show me the way into the forest, which is not far away, the vast forest is right behind the peaceful stilt houses exposed to the sun and dew all year round. But the stilt house leans against the giant, sturdy shoulder of the forest and has lived for generations.

The forest in the transitional season of summer and autumn is already strangely beautiful. But every time I feel like I am discovering it for the first time, admiring it and contemplating it.

Tired steps rub against the rough layer of dry, rotten branches. I want to lie down there, put my ear to the soft leaves, listen to the movements of insects, listen to the chirping sounds of ants, spiders spinning webs, bees making their nests... Occasionally, I see a few transparent amber cicada corpses transforming into life for the forest soil. The forest is beautiful in its nameless, ageless biological layer, in its layers of rare and exotic flowers and plants that can never be discovered. Solemn yet gentle. Majestic yet peaceful and poetic.

Illustration: Dao Tuan

The season changes, summer has passed without saying goodbye, the forest welcomes the gentle rays of sunlight as if weaving golden sequins on the passionate green canopy with thousands of whistling winds. There are many kinds of wild flowers of many colors, there are some flowers, which I actually only know now, like red-orange bells growing in dense clusters from the base to the top, clinging to the tree trunk to bloom. When there is wind, the flowers do not need to wait for each other but flutter their petals freely, covering the base of the tree with a brilliant carpet. The Thai girl who was with me chattered:

- My people call it pipe flower, this flower is beautiful and delicious too...

The slopes of the cassia flowers along the edge of the forest tilted in pure white. From afar, the cassia flowers glittered as if covered in silver. Was it my eyes that were blurred or was it the sunlight that painted the flowers with such a fragile yet passionate color? I got lost in the flowers, I got lost in the trees. Like a lover under the single, silver-white cassia trunks, smooth and towering, reaching up to the blue sky.

This season the forest is fragrant, fragrant with the smell of sun and wind, the smell of tree bark, the smell of flowers and leaves. The smell of the weather in between rain and sun, the smell of the origin, of the souls of the people born in this place. For generations, the forest has protected them from rain and floods.

Under the mulberry tree, clusters of red berries sway like the color of lipstick on pure lips. I silently contemplate the peaceful and prosperous villages lying along the gentle river reflecting the green canopy of the majestic forest. I recognize the notes vibrating the song of the origin. Endless and boundless.

Then, my busy work made my interactions with the forest less and less frequent. The rare times I returned, my heart sank, sadness lingered, regret exhaled in a deep sigh. The green cloak of the great forest was no longer supple in its original dance, but was tattered as if torn and scratched by some emotionless hand. I couldn’t take my eyes off the bare hills where the remaining trees were lonesome. A few roots had broken off the ground, and a few wild animals were startled when they saw human figures…

Perhaps the forest was in great pain but could not cry. It could only silently endure without the heart to blame, blame, or complain. That wordless, deeply tormenting silence sowed fear that one day, the green mountains, blue waters, and green slopes would still exist in the world of survival.

Suddenly one day, the great flood was like a hungry wild beast venting its anger, sweeping away and submerging everything. The terrifying nightmare haunted the subconscious of many people born from the forest and about to return to the forest. Amidst the red, swirling flow. Amidst the howling wind, the heart-rending cries were the helpless sighs of the great forest.

I suddenly remember the forest of my childhood memories. I remember the sound of geckos, the sound of deer calling to announce the rainy season. I remember the sudden rain in the forest, bending down to get into the canopy of giang leaves woven by the skillful hands of Mother Nature. Every time the afternoon falls, my grandmother often turns her head to look towards the dark forest shade with a pensive and affectionate gaze. The day my grandmother returned to the earth, my parents chose an empty patch at the foot of the mountain for her to sleep next to the wild bushes that sang lullabies all year round...

I don’t know how many rainy and flood seasons have passed through my poor homeland. When the wind howls, the trees in the garden fall down, the yellow floodwater from the stream overflows onto the road. The children hug each other and look towards the forest, waiting for its embrace and protection. The forest of ego stands tall, protecting the land, protecting the homeland, and keeping the soul alive.

Memories and the present intertwine, surging within me like hidden waves. I suddenly wake up to the realization that the fury of nature is gradually subsiding, the river begins to reflect its green arches again.

The forest is whispering its own language, but surely everyone can hear it as clearly as if they were hearing their own heartbeat. The whispers condensed into a song that sowed in my heart a desire for a tomorrow when the wounds on the forest’s form will revive. Countless seeds, countless young shoots will slowly sprout from that desolate layer of soil. A thirst filled with life…

Source: https://baothainguyen.vn/van-nghe-thai-nguyen/202508/khuc-ca-tu-dai-ngan-1433ae8/