Top 4 Essays Retelling the Poem 'Lượm' by Tố Hữu (Literature 6)

Every autumn when the leaves fall, I find myself thinking about Vietnam during the war, and especially about my beloved nephew, who sacrificed his life, the one I affectionately call 'Lượm'.

The first time we met was by chance, yet it felt destined, in the bustling streets of Hàng Bè, Hue. At first glance, the small, wiry boy with his quick steps and proud posture made me realize he was a lively, energetic child, typical of a young revolutionary. He led me across the rice fields, whistling and hopping like a carefree bird, his movements filled with joy. With a gentle tone, he said, 'Uncle Tố Hữu, do you know? The road we are walking on leads to the Mang Cá post, where I work. I pass this way often, and every evening I hear the cheerful chirping of birds. It feels even better than being at home!' His innocent words brought a smile to my face.

He spoke so lovingly, as if he were a child reading his first book, with cheeks rosy like a ripe pomegranate and a shy smile. 'Goodbye, comrade!' he said as he bounced away, his bag and cap tilted to one side. Not long after that, I received a letter from the battlefield. The first line made me choke up with tears: 'Lượm! My dear child!' During an urgent mission, Lượm, being young, had taken on the responsibility of delivering an important message. With a smile, he slipped the letter into his bag, proud to serve his country. Despite the bombs and bullets, he ran as fast as he could, holding his bag tightly in his arms. Then, the news came... 'Lượm!' I was speechless with grief—Lượm had fallen.

Even in death, Lượm’s hand was clenched around that letter, symbolizing his unwavering dedication to defending the independence of our country. The scent of rice still lingers in the fields, reminding me of his joyful spirit. The image of Lượm is no longer present, just as the little bird no longer sings and dances in the fields.

Lượm’s death became a catalyst for the people to fight for and protect the homeland. His memory is etched in my heart—an unwavering, courageous young soldier who put aside his own life for a cause greater than himself: the 'self' of Vietnam before the world.

In 1946, the French colonizers turned against us once again. President Hồ Chí Minh, on behalf of the provisional government, issued a call to the entire nation to resist, urging the people to make the ultimate sacrifice to protect the hard-earned independence and freedom we had fought so long for. I had just returned to my homeland from Hanoi, only to find that the French had launched an attack on Hue. The atmosphere in those days was charged with energy. The people of Hue, regardless of age or gender, stood united to defend their city.

While walking down Hàng Bè street, I suddenly heard a familiar voice calling out, 'Oh, Uncle Lành! When did you return?' I looked up and saw a small boy, his skin tanned from the sun, wearing a slightly tilted khaki cap, looking quite mischievous. He smiled widely, showing his even white teeth, and hurried over to me with a swift gait. His bag bounced on his back in time with his steps.

It was Lượm! My dear nephew! It hadn’t been long since we last saw each other, but he had changed so much! He seemed more mature, almost like a real soldier now. I embraced him warmly, eager to ask about his family. He proudly shared:

'I’m a courier now. I stay with the soldiers at the Mang Cá post. They teach me to read and write, sing, shoot, and do all sorts of things. It’s so much fun, Uncle!' He spoke excitedly, his eyes shining brightly, his cheeks flushed like ripe pomegranates. I couldn't help but share in his joy, feeling a sense of happiness from his innocent enthusiasm. He saluted me with a mischievous grin, saying, 'Goodbye, comrade!' I watched him skip away, his footsteps light and quick. Lượm’s cheerful whistle still echoed in my ears. I was proud to see him becoming my little comrade.

As the days passed, we fought on different fronts. Then, one summer day in June, I was devastated to hear that Lượm had been killed during an assault on the enemy’s position. Amid the intense fighting, Lượm had taken on the critical task of delivering an urgent message to the front lines. Through the smoke and explosions, he dashed forward like an arrow, determined to deliver the order to the commanding officer. A bullet struck him. Lượm fell in the fertile fields of his homeland, among the ripening rice. He had sacrificed his life right on the land that had given him life. The news of his death left an indescribable sadness in my heart.

Every time I think of Lượm, I see the image of a small boy, his shoulder carrying the courier bag, his cap slightly askew, whistling happily as he skipped along a sunlit path.

In the final days of 1947, poet Tố Hữu visited Thừa Thiên-Huế on a business trip. Upon arriving at the Mang Cá post, he was delighted to see the soldiers' enthusiastic fighting spirit.

After reporting on the situation, the post’s leaders invited the poet to tour the surroundings. Suddenly, Tố Hữu noticed a quick and lively boy, about ten years old, busily checking letters in his bag. The poet observed the boy closely, unaware that this child would soon live on forever in his poetry.

The boy was small, but his steps were fast as he ran back and forth, asking people around him questions. A small bag swung at his side, and his bright, innocent eyes matched the cap tilted jauntily on his head. Tố Hữu asked one of his companions about the boy, and was told:

'Report, Comrade, that’s Lượm, the most outstanding courier at this post. He’s probably asking around to deliver messages.'

With a smile, Tố Hữu approached Lượm and asked him:

'How old are you, son?'

'I’m 12 years old, Uncle.'

'How do you like being a courier?'

'It’s great, Uncle! Everyone is so cheerful and enthusiastic. I like it here at Mang Cá more than at home!'

'If all the people of Hue were like you, the French would be defeated in no time.'

Before Tố Hữu could ask any more questions, Lượm bid him goodbye and continued with his duties.

A few months later, while working at his office, Tố Hữu received a visit from a comrade from the Mang Cá post. After completing the formalities, they caught up with each other. When asked about the soldiers at the post, the comrade’s mood suddenly changed, and with sadness, he said:

'Do you remember that little courier Lượm? The one you liked so much… He has died.'

Tố Hữu was stunned.

'That day, like every other, Lượm had received an urgent message to deliver to the outskirts. He rushed off immediately, but along the way, he encountered an enemy ambush. He tried to evade, but it was too late—the enemy fired relentlessly. Lượm fell. When we reached him, we found that his body was cold, though his lips still bore a smile. One hand was clutching his cap, the other tightly holding a piece of wet, torn emergency telegram.' The comrade broke down in tears as he finished telling the story. Tố Hữu was silent with grief.

After that day, the poem 'Lượm' was born and quickly spread among youth organizations. The poem reminds us to live in a way that honors the sacrifices of past generations, especially the young heroes who, though small, were incredibly brave. If it weren’t for the war, these young ones, like us, would be living happy lives now.

During our nation’s heroic struggle against foreign invaders, I have witnessed many acts of sacrifice. Among them, the sacrifices made by children, such as Lượm, moved me deeply.

It was during the French invasion of Huế that I first encountered Lượm. He was a small boy with a tiny satchel, wearing a tilted cap, whistling and skipping along the road like a little bird in the early morning light.

I asked him:

'Are you working as a courier for the resistance? Do you miss home?'

He smiled brightly, his eyes squinting, his cheeks flushed like ripe fruit, and replied:

'The Mang Cá post is so much fun, Uncle! It’s even better than home!'

I said goodbye to him and continued my journey north, while he returned to Mang Cá. From that point on, my work was nonstop, and I never had the chance to return to Huế.

One day, I ran into an old acquaintance from Huế, and during a break, they told me:

'Did you hear? Lượm has died.'

'What? How did that happen?' I asked, my vision blurring with shock.

The acquaintance continued:

'Lượm was still working as a courier for us. One day, there was an urgent message that had to be delivered quickly. The route passed near an enemy base, which was very dangerous. We warned him:

'Be careful, the road is very risky, especially near the enemy post.'

Lượm smiled and said, his cheeks rosy:

'I’m not afraid of danger; when there’s a task, I must do it.'

With that, he packed the message into his satchel, donned his cap, and set off. I watched from a distance as his cap bobbed up and down in the rice field, as though he was skipping and whistling. Then, suddenly, there was a flash of red from the enemy base, followed by an explosion. His cap disappeared. When we reached him, we found Lượm had fallen. His blood soaked through his chest, but his face was peaceful, as though he were asleep. One hand was still gripping the grass by the road. The rice was in full bloom, its sweet fragrance seemed to cradle him to rest.

The news of Lượm’s death struck me like a blow. Since the beginning of the resistance, I had heard many stories of sacrifice, but the loss of Lượm has haunted me. He was so young, so carefree, and had no real understanding of life and death. In my mind’s eye, I still see the image of little Lượm, with his small satchel and tilted cap, skipping along like a bird in the Vietnamese fields, whistling as he went.