Top 10 Most Beautiful Vietnamese Poems of the 20th Century

When the cuckoo calls to its flock,

The summer rice ripens, the fruits grow sweeter,

The garden hums with the sound of cicadas,

Corn kernels scatter in the sun, filling the yard.

The sky grows even broader and higher,

Two soaring kites dance in the air.

We hear summer rising in our hearts,

And our feet long to break free, yearning for freedom.

The suffocation is unbearable, it feels as if we might burst,

The cuckoo continues to call outside, unceasingly!

Author: Tố Hữu

When will you return to visit

The homeland that once burned with fire?

Central Vietnam, as thin and sharp as bamboo strips,

Winds its way like the silken ribbon of the Lam River.

Central Vietnam

The dark, sun-scorched backs of the people,

The jagged ridges of the Truong Son mountains stretch like a screen,

Shadows of soldiers flicker across, gunfire splitting the air,

Children scattered like shrapnel,

With only the mother left alone, her heart full of sorrow, as if born from stone.

Central Vietnam

Through generations, mountains and seas have always been close,

Oh! The East Sea – a tear that has fallen through countless ages,

Still hot, as if it just fell,

Rushing toward the proud, headless stone statues of the Truong Son range.

Central Vietnam

The folk songs lie tilted,

On the sun and beneath the sand,

Even the songs themselves must be sung twice,

Why does the melody linger in your ears, year-round?

Central Vietnam

When will you return to visit

This poor land, where the water spinach can’t even grow fast enough,

The rice fields withered, pale and withered,

Only the storms seem to thrive, like wild grass,

No one gives orders, and yet the people turn pale with exhaustion.

Central Vietnam

This narrow land, shaped like a waist tied with a knot,

Where love flows like honey,

Come back, please,

Don’t let the old mother wait in vain.

Author: Hoàng Trần Cương

Each year, as the peach blossoms bloom,

We see the old scholar again,

Arranging ink and red paper

On the busy street corner.

So many people hire him to write,

Admiring his skill and grace,

His elegant hand dances across the page,

Like a phoenix soaring, a dragon flying.

But each year, fewer come,

Where have the patrons gone?

The red paper fades in melancholy,

The ink sits stagnant in its inkstone, sorrowful.

The old scholar still sits there,

Unnoticed by passersby,

Yellow leaves fall on the paper,

As light rain drifts through the air.

This year, the peach blossoms bloom again,

But the old scholar is no longer seen,

Where are the people of the past,

And where is their spirit now?

Author: Vũ Đình Liên

There's no point in wishing for a heart of gold,

You know well, my heart, I’ve given it to you.

I don’t care for wealth or treasure,

If need be, I’d sell it all, without hesitation.

I don’t wish it to be like the sun,

For it fades when evening shadows fall,

Leaving me alone in the silent night,

While your heart drifts further away from mine.

But if you return to the true meaning of your heart,

It will bring life to those dead red blood cells,

It will reclaim all that was lost,

It will close the gap between love and trust.

If you return to the true meaning of your heart,

It will long for all the dreams I’ve had,

It will feel deeply through many insights,

It will love me, and know that I love you.

This autumn, the storms and rains are fierce,

The windows of the train stand open,

The wastelands and dark forests stretch endlessly,

And you wander lost in the depths of my world.

You worry about the distant road ahead,

Your heart beats wildly, yet cannot speak,

Your heart beats, gnawing with hunger,

While a faint flame flickers in the loneliness.

If you return to the true meaning of your heart,

It is flesh and blood, as we all have,

It will stop when life comes to an end,

But it will continue to love me, even after you’re gone.

Author: Xuân Quỳnh

The sun climbs higher in the sky,

The golden rice ears ripen more each day,

The dew hangs from the tips of the grass,

The drops shimmering in the morning light.

The birds soar to the sky,

The long-tailed shrikes sing their song,

We hear their clear, ringing call,

Echoing across the vast fields.

I stand, leaning on the hoe,

My heart feels light with joy,

For I remember

That one morning long ago,

You left with a willing heart,

The shrikes singing as you went,

While the rice grew ripe with its grain.

I saw you off with a bag in hand,

I carried my rice cake in my arm,

The rice held me back, my sandals slipping,

You knelt quickly to fix them,

Crossing the fields to the narrow path.

When we reached the edge, you said,

'Our field wasn’t plowed well this year,

So the rice ripens unevenly,

Remember this for next season,

Make sure to work harder at home.'

In the distance, I heard the sounds of singing,

And you could sense the excitement growing,

As we neared the busy town,

You turned and said, 'Look back once.'

The oranges turned yellow, the bananas ripened,

You left with a steady stride,

From the very beginning of our defense,

Crossing the line of struggle.

You’ve sent your letters back,

And I’ve kept them close,

My heart fluttering as I read your words,

Knowing you are victorious now,

The rice has ripened here too,

The crops have done well, my love,

I’ve earned top honors in the harvest contest.

My hands count the months that have passed,

As everyone says not to hold hope,

But I continue to remember,

The bananas in the garden, the golden fruit at the gate.

Next season is just ahead,

And I will carry the hoe to visit the field,

The rice will weigh down the stalks with its grain,

And my heart will be full of joy,

As I wait for the day of victory.

Author: Trần Hữu Thung

The mountains stretch, connecting with the rivers,

The herons fly straight, linking field to sky.

Some say Hue is far, distant beyond reach,

But Hue, my home, lies at the heart of it all.

For eleven years, I carried Hue with me,

Through high passes, where the sun fades behind the cliffs,

The folk songs echo, swirling through the clouds and hills,

As the gentle flow of the Perfume River kisses the mountain peaks.

I've met many from Hue, far from home,

Awake through the night, determined and brave,

Clearing the way to liberate our motherland,

Building villages on the rolling hills, where homes rise.

So many from Hue will never return.

They left stones by the forest, marking their heroism,

And graves of martyrs nurture the soil of the land.

The sailboat cuts through Tam Giang, with wind filling its sails.

The weight of a thousand years rests on the shadow of the ancient citadel,

How many times has red blood soaked the green fields?

Why, on those days, was the air so heavy and solemn,

As the rivers swirled and the mountains trembled?

Each autumn, as the season returns,

My heart aches for Hue, for the home so far away.

Every time the phoenix flowers bloom in fiery red,

The rooster's crow fills the morning with the scent of the past.

Author: Thanh Tịnh

Why don’t you come visit the village of Vĩ Dạ?

Look at the sunlight streaming through the areca palms.

Whose garden is so lush, green like jade,

The bamboo leaves shading the square-shaped courtyard?

The wind follows its own path, the clouds float in their own way,

The water is melancholy, the cornflowers sway...

Whose boat is anchored by the Moon River,

Is it bringing the moon back in time for tonight?

I dream of a traveler on a distant road,

Your white dress shines so brightly, it’s hard to see...

Here, the mist blurs the outlines of figures,

Who knows how deep my feelings truly are?

Author: Hàn Mặc Tử

The seasons of fruit my mother picked,

She always relied on her own hands to plant and tend.

Seasons of fruit that vanished, only to return,

Like the sun, sometimes like the moon.

We grew from the hands of our mother,

While the pumpkins and gourds grew from the earth below.

They bore the shape of sweat, dripping silently,

Falling quietly into my mother’s heart.

And we, too, are like fruits of this world,

Seventy years my mother waited to harvest us.

I fear the day my mother’s hands grow weary,

Will I still be the young, unripe fruit?

Author: Nguyễn Khoa Điềm

Suddenly, the scent of guava wafts,

Carried by the cool breeze.

The mist lingers, drifting through the alley,

It seems that autumn has arrived.

The river, once swift, now flows slowly,

While the birds begin their hurried flight.

A summer cloud,

Half of it already crossing into autumn.

There’s still some sunlight left,

But the rain is slowly fading away.

The thunder is less sudden,

As the trees grow older in silence.

Author: Hữu Thỉnh

Who will visit my mother in the countryside,

This evening, some child far away thinking silently...

Mother, is it cold, Mother?

The mountain winds blow gently, fine drizzle falling.

Mother’s out in the fields, planting rice, shivering.

Her feet sinking in the mud, her hands sowing tender sprouts.

How many bundles of rice has she planted?

Her heart heavy, thinking of her child again and again.

The drizzle soaks through her four-layered áo tứ thân (traditional dress).

For every drop of rain, there’s a tear in her heart for her child!

Mother, don’t worry, please, day and night,

Though I’m far away, I’ll never forget you!

I've crossed a hundred mountains and thousand valleys,

But none of it compares to the ache you bear for me, Mother.

Though I’ve fought in battles for ten long years,

It’s nothing compared to the hardships you’ve faced in sixty years.

I’ve traveled to the distant frontlines,

Loving both my country and you, my dear mother.

Remember me, Mother, and stay at peace,

Your son, a soldier for the nation.

Though I may be far, I’m still near,

My comrades and I, all your children, standing together.

Mother loves me, loves them too,

She cherishes both me and my brothers-in-arms.

Mother, your heart is forever soft and tender,

With your love, we are never alone—family, country, and all.

With every step I take, I bear the hardships,

Far from you, but still surrounded by your love!

So many grandmothers, kind-hearted like you,

Love me as their own, as if they had birthed me.

They give me clothes, gifts, and firewood,

Offering warmth and comfort, they make me feel at home.

I’ve grown and left, but still, my heart aches for you,

Mother, sitting at home, thinking of me!

Don’t be sad, Mother, please hold on,

When the war ends, we’ll be together again.

The years pass, your hair grows silver,

And this evening, I’m sure you can feel my silent presence...

Author: Tố Hữu