Top 10 Essays About July You Should Read - Mytour.vn

July arrives in the afternoon breeze, the riverbank tilts mesmerized by the long, slender strands of drifting white rain. The distant storm warning bellows, the evening chill just brushes the doorstep, enough to soften the summer sun, so the wind continues to rustle, pondering over sorrows. The slender lotus petals still waft their fragrance. The narrow path along the dike is now beginning to yearn. Amidst the mist, the scent of ripe jackfruit fills the air, and we reminisce about July's footsteps.

Gently tearing off the pages of days gone by to reach out and touch July, finding the calendar at the alley's end already littered with memories. Seeing the phoenix flowers beginning to linger, the cicadas' chorus in the canopy gradually subsides. The rain dulls the intense heat of summer, ushering in autumn amidst expanses of green. The fragrance of ripe guava at the end of someone's yard wafts, soft footsteps leave poignant imprints in the rain. July returns, loving the impoverished homeland, with a bit of sun, a bit of rain nurturing new leaves, father's cracked dry feet wading through the rice fields, and mother's back bending further from days of tilling distant fields. July comes with slanting rain in the wind, lovingly carrying the burden of mother's impoverished back along the riverbank, the white storks incessantly flying without rest, and bare feet tirelessly traversing the rice fields.

July bears the transition from summer to autumn, easing the heat, even the withered lotus feels less oppressive. We sigh as the dusk falls in our eyes, feeling the raindrops of Chuc's tears continuously falling. July is melancholy with mist clinging to clothes, is there a ferry somewhere echoing along a distant river? How many people remain there, a piece of the homeland's soul waiting? July falls amidst forgetfulness, yet yearns for barefoot afternoons on old dirt roads. Hearing nostalgia rush back to the old days, our childhood owes a debt to kites. Barefoot children, darkened skin, golden straw still scattered amidst village alleys, the fields quickly turning green with new crops.

July returns amidst hasty storms, not as thunderous as June's storms. The green trees begin to soften, bending gently with each passing gust. The wind sings on the summer roadside, white clouds in the sky gradually turn gray and vast. The elderly gaze fondly at mischievous children, the ancestral home overly indulgent yet deeply caring. Suddenly, we see ourselves as naive children, plucking gray hairs for grandma who always craved ice cream. Holding broken sandals with worn-out straps, dried duck feathers from the noonday sun, chasing after the sound of the ice cream vendor's bicycle ringing through the village. The rock-hard ice cream stick, not as sweet as it is now, becomes the most delicious treat of our raggedy childhood, a lifetime filled with contemplation.

Childhood fades away through many Julys, the crow's feet around our eyes grow deeper. Sometimes, looking at calloused hands full of wrinkles, we still restlessly long for past Julys. Remembering the youthful July with a full moon rising, eyes furtively glancing, hesitantly twisting fingers, prolonging farewells. Into university, some to one school, some to another. Some don military uniforms, some wander to distant Europe. Each leaving the school grounds for their own lives, some remaining, some lost, some familiar becoming estranged. Only the longing for July remains poignant, the falling phoenix flowers, students laying down their pens. Only the night wind stirring brings us back to the pages of old diary entries...

July lightly touches noon, amidst the endless months and years. Gazing at July amidst the late autumn sky, hearing the lingering whispers of childhood winds. The tattered house by the fish pond on the hill, smoke drifting in the vast afternoon roof. Banana clusters after summer sway with mother's figure. In the cool breeze of the slanted courtyard. A child uses dirt as merchandise, playing innocently amidst heaps of earth, sparkling sweat under the midday sun.

July meanders through the sunshine, stepping into the soft autumn, heaven and earth melting into gentle tranquility. July's melody echoes on fading flower petals of ancient hues. July leaves the gaze of mother's eyes bidding farewell to a child going to university at the train station amidst the windy afternoon. Mother's calloused hands reluctantly relinquish dreams of her child. Once again, seeing mother standing beneath the gourd trellis, mother's gaunt figure on the leaning village path. Seeing the letter with the amount of money mother sent, painstakingly earned drop by drop of sweat. Sun and rain continue to fill the narrow paths. We enter life from mother's cradle, from mother's body throughout a lifetime of toil. July falls, loving mother's worn figure.

July leaves us on the train returning to the city. Standing at the station, then losing ourselves in the illusory crowd. July is wavering, July is swaying, yet July returns, in our longing exchanged.

Tran Hien

July arrives, hanging thoughts outside the door, weaving distant hopes and dreams. Passing through the relentless sunny days, we await sudden cooling rains, calming the space, soothing the soul. Immersed in rainy days, we yearn for sunny days to dry up our sorrows. July's weather is unpredictable, with a mix of sun and rain. The transitional tune between summer and autumn hesitates between the end of summer and the onset of fall. Approaching autumn's breath, it retreats, brushing against the heat of summer. Summer lingers but softens, while autumn is not yet fully intense. The precarious balance of July's weather restrains the bustling pace of life, settling the human heart into contemplation.

July, immersed in gratitude for heroic martyrs. Watching, listening, reading, I am haunted by the old soldiers, the youth volunteer force clearing the way... embracing, celebrating, mourning, then tearfully recounting farewell moments with comrades, choking back words, tears welling with regret. Painful longing for comrades buried deep in the cold earth, unable to return to their homeland. Messages seeking lost comrades become increasingly emotional over time, 'who knows the grave of the martyrs... report back...' Families, loved ones, ache as they call out in various Memorial Ceremonies held nationwide. The immense sacrifice exchanged for independence, freedom, and happiness in today's life. Moments of profound gratitude, universal appreciation.

July (lunar calendar) evokes ancient hopes. A month marked by mourning and remembrance, a month when King Yama opens the gates of the underworld to allow liberated spirits to return to the mortal realm, coinciding with the Vu Lan Festival (the 7th lunar month). Stemming from the legend of Buddha's disciple, Muc Kien Lien, saving his mother from hungry ghosts in the 18 layers of hell. Reminding us of filial piety towards our ancestors. Suddenly recalling July in Nguyen Du's Soul-Wandering: The July weather is drizzly and misty, exhaling chilly air that chills to the bone... Pity the ten types of sentient beings, solitary souls adrift in their homeland. From Muc Kien Lien to Nguyen Du, from the Vu Lan Festival to the Ten Types of Sentient Beings, both share a compassionate Buddhist heart, transcending space and time, perpetually transmitted to future generations. July purifies each person's Heart, leading towards more mindful thoughts, kinder actions, greater compassion. Sending white roses to those without parents to meditate with, offering roses to those still caring for their parents to remember their parental kindness.

July's drizzling rain, the rhythm of the O Thuc Bridge, embodies compassionate love transcending tears, breaking boundaries to find each other (alternative version: The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl in the mortal realm). The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl endure separation, meeting only once every five years (the 7th day of the 7th lunar month), the Qixi Festival, considered the Eastern Valentine's Day. Tears of heaven or tears of separation, forever anchoring human hearts in yearning, sorrow!

For me, July is a month of spirituality. I entrust contemplation and reflection to July (solar-lunar),

Loc Trang

This July finds me far from home. A second-year college student like myself begins to feel increasingly 'old.' Remembering the Julys of childhood or the carefree high school years in white shirts and purple ink, how innocent, strangely carefree they were. Perhaps July also carries within it the experiences of age and the anxieties of life. I close my eyes and look up at the night sky with distant stars, dreaming vaguely about the Julys of life...

July, the red phoenix stirs the dreams of the little girl's heart. July inadvertently becomes a reverie in life. July, memories of a stranger linger like rain threads across the empty field. In the afternoon, riding alone on the village road, the wheels turn slowly, so gently. By the lake, the water is clear, the bamboo boat sways, carrying childhood memories back to the land of flowers and grass. Stopping the bike, looking up, it seems the young moon has fallen amidst the summer evening. The wind whispers desolately through the trees, suddenly feeling melancholic amidst the intense red of the rice flowers. The empty road unexpectedly makes my heart ache with longing...

July, the sound of cicadas falling in the schoolyard. I remember the classroom door, above it, the names of friends, including mine, written on the day of parting. The cicadas play a familiar, long-forgotten song, stirring up memories of the past. A face appears, rain clinging to the hair, the forehead, sad eyes watching the flying phoenix. Those eyes are filled with sadness, dreaming of a peaceful sky without storms. But in reality, life is still narrow, where can it contain dreams? The stone bench creaks, missing a familiar phrase: 'July has arrived, my friend!' July, sparkling rain falls at the end of the garden. Rain wraps the path home. The sound of mother's footsteps is barely audible amidst the rain. Then the early morning sun, seeing mother already up, gathering firewood at the end of the garden, my heart tightens.

Too innocent and indifferent, why didn't I notice my mother's age increasing day by day? The sweet clusters of phoenix flowers blooming along the narrow path to school, there is a mixed feeling of joy sneaking into the alleys of the soul; then a pang of heartache when seeing the quietness of my mother sitting, watching the faded leaves turn into dust, ash. Suddenly trembling before the cruel wheels of time and feeling my heart sink in the rainy, lingering days. July, the chrysanthemum flowers bloom later, the dew falls heavier on the lush green grass blades, full of life. The insect cries at night seem louder, deeper, more melancholic...

July, sitting alone reminiscing about childhood, legends, or fairy tales, to compensate for the future storms of life. July sings a sad tune, July with so much loneliness. Suddenly recognizing a familiar smile traversing the region of memories... Your smile, isn't it?

July returns again. July still wears its garment of scorching summer and the contemplative colors standing by the riverbank pondering life. Still the familiar sounds but why does the heart feel less peaceful than before, still seeing the 'rain flowers' blooming on the rural thatched roofs, feeling the tears thicker, saltier, and more heart-wrenching...

July gradually passes!

Nguyen Huong

July. Rain. The entire Central Highlands submerged in prolonged, pouring rain. The sky, a low blanket of dark gray, presses down. The white veil of rain seems to connect the heavens with the earth. Rain hastens the pace of those on the streets, making the atmosphere even more gloomy and somber. And, rain stirs up countless emotions for the people of my hometown. The sky keeps pouring down long rains, sowing in people's souls the longing for July rains...

In the past, July rains turned village paths into muddy trails. The steady patter of raindrops, while gentle, evoked many worries in people's hearts. Worries about floods ruining crops, worries about leaky thatched roofs soaking the beds of sleeping children... July rains have left behind many memories, both happy and sad, that echo in today's rainy days.

In the past, every afternoon rain shower was a joy for us rural children. Playing in the rain was a chance to frolic freely. The raindrops falling on our skin felt like gentle caresses. Playing in the rain was simple yet immensely enjoyable; whether it was floating banana leaf boats down the rain-swollen stream or just playing tag in the rain, it all became cherished memories. As the rain transitioned into night, that joy turned into different shades of emotions. It was the worry about leaky thatched roofs or thinly walled houses letting in the cold mountain air. In my childhood memories, July rains were intertwined with the joys and sorrows of a humble upbringing.

There were times when, after studying by lamplight, I would wade into the floodwaters to salvage the half-ripe rice grains. In the flooded fields, many people scoured for every handful of rice grains washed away by the flood. Immersed in water all day, our simple joy came from a few bags of damp rice. The genuine joy of country folk, simple yet profound. Amidst the sound of rushing water against the sides of the boat holding the rice, the hearty laughter of someone would occasionally ring out. Boys and girls from the village immersed themselves in the rainy floodwaters, exchanging warm glances as if to dispel the chill of July rains. I remember the image of village girls, soaked through, yet their smiles radiant, their eyes briefly meeting, as if July rains were not floods...

Then I bid farewell to those days of salvaging rice in July rains, setting off to pursue my unfinished dreams of education. The baggage I carried with me was filled with images and emotions from the rainy Julys. Today, listening to the sudden rain, those cold, damp memories return. I remember the joyous, soaking wet afternoons of July rain. I remember the incomplete sleep due to the damp night rain. And I remember the clear, gleaming eyes amidst the swollen July floodwaters of the village girl who once salvaged rice. Holding my phone, I ask an old friend from the countryside if they still remember the July rains and if this July is like the ones from the past. My friend laughs innocently, advising me to hold onto the past because those images will not be repeated today. The paved roads, the embankments holding back the floods, there's nowhere to find those old days anymore. July rains nourish the gardens and cleanse the village paths. Suddenly, the sound of July rains seems to cheer along with the laughter of old friends.

Nevertheless, July rains also bring back many memories to cherish, to cherish the July rains...

When the modest flowers bloom like snowflakes and their leaves close in the rain, that's when July returns, bringing with it an unusually serene atmosphere.

July of childhood was days of wandering in the fields, of getting soaked in the rain but still laughing heartily. Watching the July rain, memories rush back in an instant. Fondly remembering the stormy nights, lying in my mother's arms like a curled-up puppy beside its owner, recalling the days following my sister to the fields to catch field crabs for a hearty vegetable soup, simple yet full of love.

July doesn't rush but rather lingers, slowly like the raindrops bouncing on the water's surface, like a paper boat drifting gently on the rainy days my sisters and I would release into the rain. Children back then, just as simple as us, found such small yet amusing things to be a whole new sky, and those images seeped into the dreams of my childhood.

Even as I grew older, the beautiful memories of July remained intact within me. To me, July is the month of freshness, of lush greenery, always providing a sense of comfort. Serenity is stepping out on an early July morning, taking a deep breath of the fresh air carrying the scent of wild grass, feeling a cool breeze gently blowing, caressing every fragrant strand of hair, admiring the transparent droplets lingering on leaves like remnants of the previous night's rain. Serenity is also the leisurely bike rides on roads shaded by cool green trees, delighting in the feeling of cool drops still clinging to the branches falling onto the cool contours of the face.

The July sky is often cloudy. The thick, fluffy clouds, buoyant like cotton candy. Then, like a sweet cotton candy dissolving evenly in the mouth, those clouds gradually disperse as the sky transitions to autumn, making way for a clear, lofty sky.

Ngọc Lý

Mother sighed over the phone, lamenting how time flies, too fast. It feels like just yesterday, and now it's July again. Yes, there's a bit of nostalgia as another July returns, marking the transition to late summer. July whispers to us quietly, stirring deep emotions, amidst an evening setting aside the hustle and bustle, listening to the gentle breaths of memories, of the beloved homeland...

In my memories, July echoes with joyful, innocent laughter. It's peaceful with the leisurely afternoons in the winding village lanes. July sun feels like someone's gently warming, yet the village children still run amok in the cracked countryside fields. My hair would be sunburnt golden, yet grandmother kept saying how fragrant I was. Calling out to each other, singing familiar tunes, handfuls of wild fruits in hand, these guided me through days filled with hardships, yet brimming with affection, leaving me longing for the childhood years.

July, perhaps the busiest time of the year for farmers. After planting season, it's time to tend to the corn, dry the grains... so much work awaits. Suddenly, I feel a deep love for the farmers in my hometown, for my parents in their brown, sun-worn clothes, toiling under the scorching sun to sow the rice. My parents have spent over 20 years in farming. Years of youth weathered away by farming, exchanged for calloused hands, bird's feet marks, and tanned skin. My parents gave birth to me, born from muddy fields, I love my parents and the July of my homeland, my heart clenches...

In the early days of July, my children are tense for the biggest exams of their lives. The July sun accompanies them into the exam rooms, sweating over their answers, carrying all the love and hardship of their parents.

After so many seasons of rain and shine, the heart longs to return to the peaceful haven after the endless turmoil. The July of my homeland welcomes me with open arms. It's still mother - forgiving and compassionate. Mother stands waiting at the doorstep, singing. Nestling into mother's arms feels like I'm still a child. But mother's figure has grown thinner, her trembling hands gently caressing me in sudden sleep. Mother's songs carry me through the highs and lows. Buried in mother's warmth, I feel an unfamiliar peace...

July, evoking a myriad of poignant memories. The past rushes back every July, amidst the solemn atmosphere. Despite living in peaceful times, who could forget the day of honoring veterans and fallen soldiers, a day that stirs boundless gratitude. July reminds us not to forget the glorious memories in the ups and downs of our ancestors' stories. Free birds soaring at the edge of the sky, paths shaded by green bamboo, lush wildflower fields... all are the blood and bones of past generations. July resounds with sincere remembrance.

Like a symphony full of emotions, July weaves silent notes into moments of contemplation. I always hope each passing July brings true peace for mother, for my homeland, and for myself. So that next July, and the July after that, when reminiscing about the past, my heart will feel light, tranquil. Stepping through peaceful July days, remembering dearly the days of old.

July... beckons memories!

THÙY HƯƠNG

A verse by poet Pham Ngoc Canh about 'Mother' has haunted me: 'The sun has set, yet still wishes to cast its rays far away...'

During the days of July, I often gaze up at the sky. The July clouds hold a chaotic silver, white hue, seemingly buoyant but concealing behind them the thunderstorms rumbling at the edge of the horizon. It's as if nature empathizes with humans as July arrives, stirring within us countless memories and longing for those who have passed away.

Suddenly within me resonates the earnest song 'Red Flowers': 'Some soldiers departed and never returned...' Oh, the bright hue of flowers evokes images of flickering flames illuminating past battlefields. And the blood of our comrades has seeped into the land of our Motherland - our Motherland now holds sacred the blood and flesh.

In the dusk of July, it seems the sky becomes more oppressive, compressing the atmosphere as if holding back. The storms of war have passed, yet the storms of everyday life persist. The lingering fevers persist within bodies, corroding every cell, every red blood cell. The wounds still ache when the wind changes, even though the alarms are no longer sounded. The comrades return to the loving embrace of the community. Houses of camaraderie are built. Beams and columns interlace to support and share, nurturing small moments of happiness.

In the dusk of July, memories return with the artifacts of soldiers' lives. There's the tattered backpack with bullet holes once nervously carried on one's back. There's the image of hammocks shared under a mosquito net with the yearning to 'lay on the hammock and listen to its gentle sway'... All these cultivate within us memories overflowing like smoke clouds. There's a hint of bitterness in the corners of the eyes. There's a prickling in the gut. Then it settles, blending into the dusk imbued with the glaring sun at the end of the day, intermingled with countless hues. To gain and to lose, to give and to receive...

In the dusk of July, a brilliant, miraculous rainbow suddenly arches across the sky. The rainbow's glow intermingles with mixed emotions. The July rainbow is the resurrection of sacrifices lost. The illusory rainbow serves to convey a longing, a dream, an expression, a sentiment of those who have fallen to those living today...

Nguyen Ngoc Phu

It seems I have a special affection for July, starting from the heartwarming song lyrics: 'July without rain, you left for the cold city – The rumbling of cars on the road to the airport – Which melody sends you off...' vaguely reminding me of the serene and pure times, those years were as beautiful as a dream...

In past Julys, there were days of drizzling rain over the old fields. People in my hometown believed July was the month of misfortunes that often occurred, yet I find July incredibly charming. July, the summer month, when we, the school kids, didn't have to wake up early to hastily eat white rice with a bit of salt and then pedal miles to get to school. In the morning, my mother didn't have to wake me up to prepare for school like usual, the alarm clock went off quietly, and I curled up in the warm blankets, while the sound of the rooster standing on the pile of golden straw, eagerly crowing echoed in my ears, the murmurs of the farmers calling each other while leading the buffalo leisurely to the field when the dawn called out...

Back then, July was as peaceful as a child's smile. Past Julys beckoned me back to the joyful and sad days in the endless green countryside. There, I (and my friends as well), ate when hungry, drank when thirsty, and as the sunset, we lay down in the field to admire the evening, with a kite hovering gracefully against the pastel sky. The rice fields played a melodious tune, creating a rural symphony. In July, my mother sat cooking by the kitchen shelter behind the house, the smoke from the straw rose and then quietly dissipated into the evening shade. Amidst the peaceful and tranquil days of July, there were times when I missed the school path, my friends, the sound of the teacher's reading echoing like a harp under the familiar school roof. July was truly beautiful, truly joyful! But I didn't want to hold on, nor did I linger with regret as July gently passed by.

Those Julys in the early days of life passed through a season of youthful fulfillment, allowing us to grow up alongside life, resilient to life's challenges...

July now, the phoenix flowers peacefully shed their last petals onto the road, the petals falling slowly like words of gratitude, lingering before bidding farewell. There were times when I casually walked past a road with flowers on the outskirts of the city, I felt like the carefree me of those innocent days, picking up petals pressed into my school notebook. It's just a pity that now, I no longer hold onto any petals tinged with old colors, through many transitions. July within me, happiness and loss hold hands, accompanying each other through life. Why do nostalgic imprints choose July as their resting place? My father departed on a July afternoon, as the gentle breeze casually swept across the green fields that yearned for the sky. July – I jubilantly received the university acceptance letter in hand, then proudly flaunted it around the neighborhood like a child. The bustling journeys of exploration and the peaceful returns also took place in July, then and now. On a late July day, I left my hometown for the university town, my mother stood quietly under the pergola in front of the house, my shadow swaying on the narrow road that cut across the windy field.

July – the early life ruptures of mine lie quietly in the hearts of mistakes, rhythmic errors.

July – I awaken in a strange city, brew tea, read books, and then sway along with an instrumental melody on the balcony filled with flowers. Sometimes, I often wish to return to the old July days, so that the endless green memories could cover the soul on those peaceful evenings like the wind...

HOANG KHANH DUY

July has a special day, a day when the whole nation commemorates the sacrifices of countless heroic martyrs, veterans, and revolutionary families. The number 7 is like the seven colors of the rainbow piercing through a rainstorm carrying the historical glory of a bygone era. The number 7 resembles the seven octaves in a musical score with resonating solemn tones. It's the number 7 of Buddhism with its solemn ceremonies like seven pure pink lotus flowers offered at the altar...

These days, we meet with groups of veterans returning to visit the old battlefields. Their clothes have turned gray, their skin still bears the marks of the fever in the jungle, the wounds on their bodies ache as the wind changes, the backpacks still have bullet holes. The war ended long ago, yet the alarms never cease.

The alarms of everyday life still bring many hardships. The border, the seas still resonate with the sound of guns to maintain peace. And within every soldier is still the determination to 'pull the cannon' uphill, through the mountains and valleys, through temptations to not fall into the deep abyss as the soldiers of Dien Bien Phu once pulled cannons with the rhythm of 'Ho do we go…'. That melody still echoes, resonating with the marching steps. And the soldiers, though they have fallen, still advance in an attacking posture, still in formation to fight the enemy.

It's truly touching when we encounter a soldier-poet standing before a cemetery with thousands of graves, holding only a bunch of incense sticks. And a very humane gesture touches the hearts of many: 'I wish to light incense at the wind's end/ May the smoke never forget any tomb' (Visiting graves on the last afternoon of the year - Nguyen Thai Son). Or the image of a wife visiting her husband's grave with a wreath where the forest only has two graves. And she offered the wreath to the humble grave of her husband with a gesture of affectionate tenderness: 'May I place flowers by that grave/ The forest has only two graves/ Visiting yours, I have come here!' (Visiting husband - Tran Ninh Ho).

Then there are the 'Wind graves': 'Touching the wind is like touching flesh and blood/ Touching the cold pain of Hoang Sa' (Wind graves - Trinh Cong Loc). The greatest pain is the pain of a mother. A mother who once carried a nine-month pregnancy, once cradled and breastfed the baby, watched every tentative step with endless hopes. The children are her support in old age, her back is bent, her hair is gray. Ripe rice bends heavily under its weight just as the rice bends down. But it is the mother who is the 'launching pad' to send her children off with the hidden strength from the traditional roots. The mother is the image: 'The sun sets and still wants to cast its rays far away' (Mother - Pham Ngoc Canh). The shape of the Vietnamese homeland is like the shape of a mother, soft like the ao dai yet firm like the village head dyke.

The echoes of July's affection resonate from the Truong Son forest with fluttering white butterflies, golden sunshine with myriad dreams; from the scorched lime rock hills at the Vi Xuyen front; from the red brick walls where green grass still creeps up among the stones of the ancient Quang Tri citadel for 81 days of fire and blood; from the purple color of sim flowers and shining green pine trees at Dong Loc T-junction, Truong Bon; Hang 8 girls. Immortalized with connected flower beds, myriad colors, fragrances in the hometown gardens released into the Thach Han River “Ferry to Thach Han, please row gently/The living are still there, my friend” (Le Ba Duong).

July is a sacred month, a month of national affection and remembrance. 'Repaying kindness' is not just an annual activity, it is also the noble gesture of those living for those who have passed. How can one forget the images of those sons and daughters: 'More beautiful than roses, harder than iron and steel/ Apart, tears do not fall/ Tears are only reserved for the day of reunion.' Poet Nam Ha wrote this in the famous poem: 'We fight for you to live forever, Vietnam'. A Vietnam over four thousand years has seen countless battles against invaders and still retains its pristine mountain and river soul, the sacred land of Vietnam. A Vietnam through many occupations still maintains the Vietnamese language, Vietnamese culture, Vietnamese sentiment. The historical memories, the memories of the people cannot be lost. The beloved places associated with heroic deeds, the folk tunes linked to various terrains, geographical features.

July, month of affection and remembrance, bows before the graves with age and names, and even those without names but with age. Please don't call them 'nameless' because their silent sacrifices have honored the country. Like poet Che Lan Vien wrote: 'Oh, our beloved homeland like flesh and blood/Like our parents, our spouses/Oh, homeland, if you need us to die/For every house, every mountain, every river...'.

NGUYEN NGOC PHU