Tue Sy was a monk. He wrote very seriously, his knowledge of Buddhism was truly vast. Seeing his ascetic appearance, no one would have guessed that his soul also hid a profound and mysterious source of poetry... One day he read to me two lines of his Chinese poetry: "Deep night wind drifts, career shadow follows" "Nowadays, willows fall, flowers fly" He asked how to continue the two lines to form a quatrain. I suggested to him that I ask nun Tri Hai to continue. He was embarrassed and told me not to joke like that. So I will try to write: “The wind blows in the deep night, the shadows follow. Now the willows have fallen, the flowers have flown. My mind is drifting, my tears are fresh. Tri Hai has many worries and bamboos are in chaos.” And I beg you not to be upset about this. But who would have thought that this reserved and reserved monk, who has never been entangled, also has an extraordinary source of Vietnamese poetry? One of his poems, “Untitled”, is enough to make us scared and lose sleep: “Eyes wet with golden age, the old festival sky” “The blue shirt is not forever blue on the wild hill” “In a moment of haste, I suddenly find myself wandering around” “Lighting a lamp late at night, sitting and telling stories of the waning moon” “Just hearing four lines, I felt my soul freeze, my heart numb.” “From the cold mountain to the eternally silent sea” “This rock peak and that grain of salt have not melted yet” “Smiling with the sun, why is a day so fast?” “Today is winter, tomorrow is summer, is it sad?” “Counting the gray hairs, my age is not enough” “The dusty road is long, my heels are tired from walking around” “Now looking back at the four gloomy walls” “The source is far away” "The water flows down the mountain" I was frightened and suggested: The Master should put aside writing books and continue writing more poems, otherwise Vietnamese poetry will lose a great genius. He replied: - Let me go back and ask Ms. Tri Hai if what he said is true.

Please write the lines slowly like that. Surely you will see the unusual solemnity of nostalgia. What nostalgia? - The sky of the old meeting.

A meeting for leisurely walking? An eager meeting? - “The eager hour of a time of youth?”.

Opening the words, the source of poetry directly entered the center of the dream of contemplation. Full of all the immense elements: a vast and brilliant sky, a fluttering old gathering, a sparkling golden age... A pair of wet, sad eyes of the present.

But the poetic vein runs underground. The rhythm silently guides. The poet does not need any adjectives, he can still say that everyone "must say" to everyone "want to hear" to himself "not interested in talking".

Outstanding and divine poets often have that unusual style. They say little but say a lot. They say a lot but in the end it seems like they see nothing at all. They speak for themselves, but as if they speak for everyone. Speak for everyone but seem not to care about whether the world listens or not. Their joys and sorrows seem not to be the same as ours. Therefore we blame them in a completely wrong way (par manque de justice interne).

During a party, we ask them a few things. They were indifferent, we thought they were arrogant. While everyone was crying in the middle of the funeral, they passed by nonchalantly, seemingly smiling, smiling. We thought they were cruel and rude.

King Gia Long in the past was once surprised by Nguyen Du's attitude: "I use people, without distinction between North and South. Whoever has talent, I will use (...). Why are you so sad and quiet all year round?"

The king was surprised because it was very reasonable, in line with the common sense of the world. He could not understand why the wandering spirit was wandering as if in a dreamland, a wandering spirit!

The King had bestowed upon him such abundant rain and dew, such a great salary, great power, and profound privileges, why was Liep Ho not satisfied, still not letting his dream wander to another horizon.

Answer: It was because the eyes looked here but saw somewhere else.

Wet eyes? Whose eyes? Why were they wet? Because of tears, or because they were too sparkling?

The poet did not say clearly. That was to keep a quiet space for poetry.

We are free to think two or three ways. Or maybe the poet’s eyes are wet in the present because he misses an old festival sky. Or was it a pair of beautiful eyes that were as gentle and sparkling as flowing spring water, reflecting an old, eternal festival sky, that I have lost today?

Which shirt was blue? The indigo blue of a Man girl, a Muong girl, a mountain girl who once crossed the forest and whom the poet once happened to look at passionately?

I am not far from the truth. Because Tue Sy was originally from Laos. His parents lived in the land of Upper Laos, Central Vietnam. His mother sometimes returned to Saigon to visit him at the temple and brought him a special pair of sandals and a special western scarf.

In a moment of haste, I suddenly found myself wandering?

I am a Bodhisattva, practicing Buddhist scriptures and vegetarianism all year round, so why, in a moment of haste, do I dare to become a wanderer? Dare to put aside my scriptures? Dare to open a lamp late at night and sat telling stories about the waning moon?

Only when one sees Tue Sy's ascetic and sincere face, can one be shocked by those profound and simple words. The words seemed to resonate from the depths of a previous life's soul, from a homeland on the vast upper reaches of the mountains and forests, wind and dew, the moon shimmering in the cold night.

A love that is so vast and spreads across the cold, silent sea. A grain of salt has not yet melted. A hidden sadness of one's heart, lonely and unwashed.

I seem to hear the heroic “stylized high” of a Liep Ho, a Nerval, the most melancholy place in Nietzsche's scale.

How many times has a poet sat watching the waning moon? Sitting on a rock peak? The sacred forest stretches out on all sides, the color of the blue moon reaching the horizon far away in the ocean?

The rock peak and the salt grain are two places where the crystals of the mountain and the sea converge. The rock peak gathers all the colors of the sky, clouds, and forests. The salt grain contains the ocean's essence. That is the endlessness of the heart stopping in the middle of the wandering snow and moon: “Smiling with the sun, why is the day so fast? Today is winter, tomorrow is summer, is it sad?” A word “sad” hovers, half like a question, half like a lament, leading to a whole heart-rending song: “The lotus fades, the chrysanthemum blooms again, The sadness is long, the day is short, winter has turned to spring.” “Counting the gray hair, life is not enough, The dust on the road is long, my heels are tired walking around.” The rhythm of the poem changes again: “Counting the gray hair, life is not enough, The dust on the road is long, my heels are tired walking around.” long
Tired
Heels
Walking Around
The rhythm is broken like tired heels walking around. A life not enough? A youth not enough? A golden age ending early? A “stone” age saying goodbye to all love early? “Now looking back at the four gloomy walls, the distant stream, upstream, down the mountain” The poem stops. The lingering echoes linger in the night of a wanderer, confined within four walls with the dullness and gloom of a prison.