Ủ lòng nhủ hoài chẳng viết
Xuân đi lần lữa cứ chờ
Thơ vẫn nằm trong thao thiết
Nghe bông hồng nở sững sờ
Tìm đâu lời hay ý mới:
‘tiếng mẹ’ đã là bài thơ!
Mother, there was a poem
I often told myself to write
But year by year, it was delayed
And remained there in me, deep inside
Suddenly, at the end of one hurried day
as the wind was chasing the sun away
I listened carefully and heard a pink rose blossom (*)
I was stunned to realize
That I no longer needed to look anywhere else
For those beautiful words or new ideas:
“Mother” is already a poem.
(*) A tradition comes from Buddhists: in the mid July worship, whose mothers are still alive will be given a pink rose to put on their blouses; whose mothers passed away will receive a white rose.