Top 8 Beautiful Essays About Fireflies

“... The fireflies flicker near the pond, amidst the distant joys and sorrows...”
Nguyen Duy

Those were the days, when the village roads were lush and green, with the sun barely filtering through the thick canopy of bamboo, jackfruit, and pomelo trees. Soft pink threads of spider webs hung like delicate curtains along the edges of the morning glories that served as fences. We children would weave the stems into necklaces, bracelets, and makeshift glasses, creating small, whimsical designs that were playfully tucked behind our ears. The morning glory, so entwined with our childhood, brought endless amusement with each new game. While today's children blow soap bubbles, often harmful and unsanitary, we used to take a few morning glory leaves, a small dry bamboo stick (about 10 cm long with a hole in the middle), dipped in morning glory sap, and would blow the most colorful bubbles — red, green, and every shade of the rainbow. Whoever made the biggest bubble or kept it from popping the longest would win. The seeds of the morning glory were edible, raw or roasted, and though few remember the unique taste of these countryside seeds — fragrant, rich, and satisfying — they left an indelible mark on anyone who tried them. Even the thorns of the morning glory had a role in our childhood games: “Kim kỉm kìm kim – if your dog is lost, come find it at my place!” We would mark a patch of ground with sticks, drawing shapes or squares, and three of us would gather, hiding the tiny thorns in the earth. The winner was the one who found the most thorns, often after hours of searching, and even the person who hid them had no idea where they were.

Those were the days when butterflies fluttered freely, white and yellow, filling the sky. We kids would chase them with bundles of bamboo leaves or sprigs of sweet-tasting plants like the wild apple tree (a plant with tiny purple flowers and a sugary nectar, used as a fence to keep chickens out or planted along the gates). We would trap the butterflies in jars without a second thought, oblivious to their fate. Those days were filled with joy, with no lessons, no chores, just picking flowers and chasing butterflies.

By day, we would catch fireflies, placing them in the hollow stems of old gourds (which kept them alive for hours), or even in eggshells, their tiny lights flickering as we walked from one end of the village to the other. Our childhood, with its endless days of rain and play, seemed like a paradise, untouched by worries, where joy was ever-present and boundless.

Now, the village has changed. Dirt roads have been replaced with concrete, and the lush morning glory fences have vanished, replaced by towering walls that separate and isolate. The village is no longer poor, and people no longer cherish the simple pleasure of a steaming bowl of rice. Meals that once consisted of simple, rustic dishes like pumpkin flower soup or salted fish with sesame are now overshadowed by extravagant feasts. Everyone says that we no longer face hunger, yet the tables are overflowing with waste. Children are glued to their phones, playing games rather than enjoying the simple pleasures of the past. It’s hard to decide whether to be happy or sad; I just find myself longing for the days when a simple yam or cassava was enough to nourish the soul. Now, with all this abundance, many have lost sight of the little things that once shaped us, making us kinder and more compassionate.

Everything happens due to fate. Where there is birth, there is inevitably death. But still, the flickering fireflies remain by the pond each summer night, and the delicate purple flowers continue to bloom along the pathways, unaffected by time’s passing or the world’s chaos. And as long as this place still has a mother, it will forever be a safe haven, a place of peace.

Vy Doãn Thị

It had been a long time since I last strolled down the village path on a late spring evening. The sky had turned a soft purple, filled with the faint fragrance of betel flowers. The moon was late to rise. Only the stars twinkled like tiny blossoms of wildflowers scattered across the vast, misty night sky. Dew drops brushed against my hair, eyelashes, and skin, leaving a cool, gentle feeling. Suddenly, I heard the slow, rhythmic croaking of frogs by the pond, calling for their mates, reminding me that spring was almost over. No wonder the giant silk tree at the village entrance had shed its last fiery red flowers, now replaced by fresh green leaves. Even the peach blossoms in the garden were fading, with only a few late-blooming flowers remaining.

With the wisdom passed down from the elders, “avoid the sun’s harsh rays, and the rain’s heavy touch,” I followed the faint glow of the narrow alley that led back home. I paused by the pond’s bridge, beneath the shade of an ancient longan tree, and took a deep breath of the fresh night air, filled with the scent of betel flowers. The stars reflected in the pond, creating shimmering patterns like precious gems, and I was reminded of the love poem “Betel Flower” by the poet Xuân Diệu:

Betel flowers bloom, releasing a soft glow,
The fragrance and light shine like stars,
I want to give you this delicate scent,
So gentle and profound, just for you.

Countless love stories have been connected with the scent of betel flowers, and the talented poet once beautifully captured those emotions. Many couples walked down the same village path, remembering the faint fragrance before their parting, with one heading off to war. Countless young women, combing their hair, found the sweet scent of betel flowers lingering in their tresses, forever tied to that magical night spent strolling through the village with their lovers.

As I wandered through these memories, lost in the stillness of the night, I suddenly spotted flickering lights on the other side of the pond. Fireflies. Yes, fireflies. Their tiny, glowing bodies flashed like tiny flashlights, some darting close to the water's surface while others soared high, as though playing in the air. One corner of the pond shimmered in an ethereal glow. When I was a child, we used to catch these fireflies and place them in old glass bottles as makeshift lamps when our house’s oil lamp ran out. Their gentle greenish light was enough to illuminate the pages as we memorized our lessons. Once I had learned the lesson, I would catch the fireflies again, fascinated by the glowing substance in their tails, trying to understand this natural wonder. Such unforgettable moments from childhood.

As I became immersed in the village night, the chimes of the clock tower rang out, signaling that it was late and breaking the flow of memories. I returned home, still deeply moved. Oh, how beautiful the village night was.

In my childhood, we didn’t have the glaring electric lights we do today. People sought out light from full moon nights, lanterns made from egg shells, crackling fires, and from the fireflies that danced in the night.

It seems every child is captivated by fireflies, though no one really knows where their magical glow comes from. We only knew that when we played in the field on a moonlit night, a swarm of fireflies would appear, lighting up the bushes where we sat. On one particularly dark night, when all the houses were hidden in darkness, the fireflies came from nowhere, illuminating the entire village with their blinking lights.

Fireflies appeared in the summer, starting from the field in front of us. It was as if someone had gifted the village children this beautiful sight, making summer the season we eagerly awaited. Every time the fireflies returned, we would sing a little song:

“Fireflies, oh fireflies,
Gather and light up the night,
The sky is dark now,
Quickly, shine so bright.”

(from the children’s rhyme ‘Fireflies’)

Fireflies fascinated the village children. Every one of us loved catching them, placing them in a jar, and watching in awe. The glowing green halos that flashed from the fireflies seemed to pull us into an enchanting world, making us believe in the natural wonders around us.

Summer nights in the village were so cool. With each breeze, swarms of fireflies would rise and fly with the wind, creating glowing trails that seemed to shine like stardust, which never failed to amaze us. Sometimes, the children would gather by the pond or the canal near our house, waiting for the fireflies to appear. To pass the time, we would sing songs, believing the fireflies could hear us and would come. But on some nights, they never came, and we would reluctantly head home. Yet in our dreams, the fireflies and their magical light would always return to us.

In the innocent hearts of children born in a rural area with fields, ponds, and canals, we truly believed that fireflies came from some magical world. It seems children are different from adults in this sense—they believe in fairy tales and magical realms. We had such beautiful childhood days, filled with wonder and endless curiosity about fireflies.

Whenever I think about the fireflies glowing in the night, I think of my own childhood. As we grow older, childhood becomes a dreamlike world that everyone longs to return to. I believe if there really was a ticket to return to childhood, like in a story from *Doraemon*, many would buy it just to relive those precious moments. There’s an irony in this—every child wants to grow up, but once we do, we always wish we could go back to the world of our youth.

Recently, a movie called *Grave of the Fireflies* was released with great success. Though I don’t know exactly what the movie is about, just hearing its title makes me nostalgic. For many, the movie is moving due to its human story. For me, it reminds me of my childhood, a time of poverty yet filled with joy, a world shimmering with dreams and hopes that I left behind as I grew older.

In conversations with childhood friends, we often begin with seemingly random remarks, not to inquire about each other, but more as a reminder: “Our village is entering firefly season…” And even if we’re busy, each of us would stop to reminisce about our childhood memories. As for me, whenever I pass by the village field, I always look far into the distance, as if trying to glimpse that little piece of sky filled with the soft glow of fireflies that has quietly remained there through the seasons. I realize there is so much magic in life, and the natural world is where a child’s heart finds curiosity and learns. Children should live and immerse themselves in nature, away from computers, TVs, and video games, to discover the incredible beauty that life holds.

TRAN NGUYEN HANH

As summer gently approaches, the cool dampness of the late spring air makes way for the bright golden warmth of sunlight. The subtle scent of ripening rice and the faint, earthy aroma of grasses on the wind-swept dike fill the air, while the sound of dry leaves rustling signals the first stirrings of life as cicadas prepare to awaken from their long slumber. Stepping softly into the warm summer night, you suddenly notice the flickering lights of countless fireflies deep in the garden, their brief, mystical glow lighting up the darkness before vanishing into the eternal mystery of the night. It is then that you realize the fireflies have returned.

Their sudden appearance always brings with it a feeling of wonder and awe, as if they were a secret pact with time, with the rhythmic cycles of the seasons, and with memories that remain fresh in our hearts. In the peaceful countryside of childhood, every child has experienced the excitement of chasing after the shimmering lights on a summer night. Sometimes, in joy, we catch one in our hands, gently opening them to reveal the tiny brown firefly with its glowing tail that flickers on and off. At other times, we miss, and the firefly darts upward, blending into the dark trees, leaving behind a sense of regret, as if something precious was just out of reach. These fleeting joys and sorrows of childhood are short-lived, but soon the village children gather again to hunt for fireflies to trap in glass jars or empty egg shells. Under the soft glow of thousands of tiny lights, my mother would tell us stories of ancient scholars like Mạc Ðĩnh Chi, who studied diligently in times long past.

Few know that to achieve such a brief, dazzling moment, the fireflies must endure a long, quiet journey. Unlike other creatures that attract mates with scent or color, fireflies use their glowing signals to find one another. Along the forests, by the rivers, or deep within the lush gardens, fireflies gather in a dazzling dance of light, celebrating the season of love. After their brief, glowing courtship, fireflies lay their eggs in the earth, which hatch into larvae. These larvae wait for a long time, transforming into pupae before emerging as full-grown fireflies. This lengthy process can take up to a year, and in some species, the larvae may even rest for years, yet the life of a fully grown firefly lasts only a few days or weeks. Even though their lives are brief, fireflies give all of themselves, burning brightly like tiny stars in the night sky.

As we grow older, we are increasingly lured by the dazzling lights of the world around us, and the memory of those fireflies from our youth fades away. The forests are shrinking, gardens become smaller, and fireflies seek shelter in places where nature has been overtaken by concrete. Without the soft, mossy patches, the cool grassy banks, and the quiet, secretive trees, the night is exposed, harsh under the blinding glow of streetlights. The fireflies have scattered, their light lost in the distance, carrying with them dreams that will never return. Someone once said that each firefly is a fallen star, shedding light on the hidden longings deep in the human soul amidst the darkness. Without their glow, the night would be unpredictable, murky, full of danger, like a realm of ignorance that weighs heavily on the human spirit. It takes a long journey through life, experiencing all its storms and sweetness, to understand the simple wisdom hidden in these reflections.

The miraculous beauty of fireflies in the night has not only inspired music and poetry but also appears in films that move audiences to tears. Who among us does not feel deeply when watching the final scenes of the Japanese film *Grave of the Fireflies*, as the fireflies surround two children drifting amidst the destruction of war, offering their fragile light as comfort to the sorrowful souls of lost children? Every year, in Japan, the Hotaru Matsuri firefly festival in Hokubo town continues to attract many visitors who immerse themselves in the peaceful atmosphere, watching thousands of fireflies lazily glide through the trees and streams. No matter where we are, humans always find unity in moments that resonate with nature.

Returning to the firefly seasons, we find our souls at peace, listening to the breath of the universe shifting in the deep night, learning to cherish every sparkling moment of life.

Trọng Bách

Now, on the early summer nights, I often dream of wading through clear, flooded paths, following a swarm of fireflies. This is a memory from my childhood, drawn to their mysterious, glowing lights that seemed both enchanting and a little eerie. The soft, silk-like green grass rose from the water in two long rows, guiding me along the path, telling me where the road ended and where the pond began.

The fireflies fluttered in groups, scattered across the night sky, sometimes high, sometimes low, leading me to a patch of white butterfly flowers or a men flower bush by the top of the slope near my grandmother's house. The strong scent of the flowers filled the air in a haunting, dreamlike atmosphere. At times, I thought such scenes only existed in animated films, but no, they were right before me, the fireflies circling, then flying into a bush.

Their glowing bodies lit up the surface of the water. I chased after their light, crossing the path to reach the higher side of the pond. The wide pond seemed to shrink in an instant as the fireflies flew in and out. I stood mesmerized, both thrilled and scared by the towering, dense rows of bamboo. The sounds of wings flapping and the startled calls of night herons filled the air. All the paths in the village were bathed in the dim glow of the moon.

At that time, there was no electricity. Perhaps that’s why the fireflies’ light made everything seem more beautiful. The kapok flowers from the previous week lay scattered by the riverside. My grandmother often said: “When the fireflies come out, and the kapok flowers fall, it’s time to plant sesame seeds.” But the seasons were for the adults, while we only cared about our games and the small corners of the village. My childhood village was a magical world.

We knew every tree, flower, and creature in the village. We marked the spots where the wild mulberries grew ripe or the wild viper fruits started to form. On sunny afternoons, we sneaked out to pick different types of wild fruit and share them. In the evenings, we ran through the path from home, across the rice fields to the embankment, eagerly chasing fireflies to trap in tiny bottles.

Whenever my father told stories of his time fighting the Americans, walking overnight through the Trường Sơn mountains, often following a group of fireflies that guided him, I wished for the nearby forest to have as many fireflies as those from his stories. My grandmother believed they were the lights of wandering spirits, cautioning me not to get too close. My mother was terrified of fireflies. Whenever a large one, as big as a bird's egg, flew into the house, landing on the wall or the altar, she would pray for it to leave, saying it was the spirits visiting.

My mother would become anxious when she saw a firefly in the yard. At first, I too was scared, but soon, I grew fond of them. I always remember the fields and groves filled with fireflies in my village and at my grandmother's village. Later, as a mother myself, I watched the Japanese film “Grave of the Fireflies” and almost cried. The scenes of fireflies flying in the dark tunnels mirrored the fireflies that once led me along the village roads. It turns out that the beauty of childhood is similar worldwide. The fireflies, soft-bodied insects with wings that glow in the dark, became a cherished memory that will never fade.

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Suddenly, the lights went out. Everyone groaned in frustration, the oppressive summer heat was unbearable. Yet, it seemed that this abrupt change allowed nature to return to its peaceful state. Everything around us fell into the stillness of the night. The faint moonlight dissolved into the air, and the scene became even more magical under the moon's glow. And then, the light of a firefly appeared, emerging from the bushes along the roadside, illuminating the darkness before me.

That light took me back to the distant summer nights of my childhood. Nights that we, as children, eagerly awaited. It was summer vacation, no homework to worry about, no threats of being scolded by our mothers. We could play freely with our friends in the neighborhood. Every night after dinner, our group would gather at the open field near the village. The field had just been harvested, revealing the dried-up stubble of rice stalks. Along the edges of the field, long bundles of straw were spread out to dry for making brooms. Under the dim moonlight, they looked like children playing. One of us would jokingly say, 'From a distance, it almost looks like a ghost.' This would prompt one of the clever ones in the group to come up with a plan to scare the girls. We’d bundle the straw into shapes, attach fireflies to them with tape, and place them at the doorstep of a girl’s house. When she opened the door and saw what she thought was a ghost, she screamed in terror, her face pale, only to get angry and cry once she realized she had been tricked.

Speaking of fireflies, they were everywhere back then. These tiny creatures, with their hard wings, emitted a soft green glow from their bellies at night. The light was cold to the touch, and it never felt warm. Where did the fireflies come from? I remembered a story my mother told me: 'The fireflies have existed since ancient times. There was a poor mother and son living in a village. The mother loved her son dearly, but he was rather stubborn. After being scolded by his mother, the boy ran away. The mother regretted it and searched for him, but never found him. When the boy finally returned home after many days, he could no longer find his mother. He cried out loud, and when he died, he became a firefly, lighting up the night to search for his mother.' In my childish innocence, I wondered if the fireflies were actually all boys who didn’t listen to their mothers. But my grandmother told me fireflies were the souls of the deceased, coming back each night to search for their loved ones. Maybe that's why, every night, I would see the fireflies flickering in the dark, like stars falling from the sky.

We played and laughed. The fireflies joined us in our games. We chased them, trapped them in bottles, but they never seemed afraid. They hovered around us all night. Our laughter filled the vast space. Even when the adults scolded us, we were oblivious to the heat and exhaustion of summer. Our sweaty faces were forgotten, and the sting of our scraped feet didn’t matter. All that mattered was the joy in our hearts, the sound of our laughter, and the glowing fireflies in our eyes.

Eventually, the firefly stopped flying. It landed on a branch, and its light slowly faded. Perhaps it didn’t have enough strength to fly anymore. I reached out, but something stopped me. Why was the firefly alone? Where were its friends? Maybe they had grown up and moved on, just like we did. Despite telling myself otherwise, I couldn’t deny the fact that it had been so long since I last saw a trail of fireflies glowing in the night. Occasionally, I would catch sight of a few weak, lonely fireflies flying in the darkness. Where had all the energetic, mischievous fireflies gone?

Had they all found their mothers? Or had the souls of the dead all moved on, causing the fireflies to disappear little by little? I wasn’t a child anymore, so I couldn’t think of such things with innocence. But if we could, on a quiet night, close our eyes and listen to the melodies of nature, we would be amazed by how much noise of engines and artificial sounds drowned out the songs of insects. Then, if we opened our eyes to the night sky, we would be struck by how the bright lights of street lamps and decorations had overshadowed the moon, the stars, and the fireflies.

Our environment is changing negatively. The massive amounts of chemical waste and the increasing use of pesticides and herbicides on the fields have not only led to the decline of fireflies but also other creatures. Environmental pollution and light pollution harm the reproductive cycles of fireflies, preventing them from emitting signals to attract mates. One day, when a child asks their mother, 'What do fireflies look like? I’ve never seen one before,' the mother will probably smile sadly and reply, 'Fireflies are little glowing spots from my childhood memories. They were the friends of children.'

The firefly on the branch suddenly flew up, its light glowing again, its wings no longer tired. I watched the tiny light fade into the night and wondered, 'Where do fireflies go?' There, it stopped next to another firefly, perhaps a female waiting for it. Firefly, go ahead, fly to a peaceful place, to a place full of love, to find life once again!

PT, 24/06/2023

Trần Tú

When the first rains of the season fall gently, hanging from the eaves, and summer unfolds across the fresh green grass, it is during these nights that I lie awake, mesmerized by the glowing lights of the fireflies. These insects, with their soft bodies and glowing light, live a short life like many other larvae but have left a lasting mark on my life with their endless, blinking green light, forever etched in my memories.

The heavy rain of the early season. Children run wild, bathing in the downpour. Summer arrives with flashes of light, like angels in the night. Back then, electricity was a luxury in my rural home, available only during the three days of the Lunar New Year. The rest of the year, we lived by the flickering light of kerosene lamps, or the dim glow of a 6-volt light that my father had to travel 3-4 km to recharge.

On one such evening, with the cool air filling the room, I was filled with excitement like a loyal dog awaiting its master’s return from the kitchen. What could be more delightful than the return of summer? The tiny lights flickered on the fence, along the road, soaring with a trail of glowing blue light. Back then, I called them the lights of the heavens. The fireflies climbed higher into the night sky, yet never became stars above. I longed for the winds to carry them towards the eternal light.

I was an adventurous child. My mother always said I was mischievous from the start. I once kept an entire colony of ants in a matchbox. My family sold medicine back then, so there were plenty of glass jars for me to trap my creatures. My mother was shocked to find a matchbox full of queen ants and a glass jar crowded with fireflies by my bedside. "Huy, what are these?" she exclaimed.

All the fireflies in the glass jar instantly began to glow. A stream of red light mingled with an eerie green glow, flowing out and brushing against my hand. The next day, after school, I rushed to find the jar, hidden under my pillow. But the fireflies no longer shone as brightly, or perhaps the glowing light was merely a child’s imagination. Or perhaps that light was the love I held for those endless summer nights. My fireflies, my magical little angels, had died. I sat quietly in the corner, crying... crying...

Later, I learned that the luciferase enzyme in fireflies is used in various medical experiments. With luciferase studies in research labs, scientists have developed numerous applications for this enzyme.

Yet, it seems my little angels are on the brink of extinction. Last year, a friend invited me to the West or to Da Lat to see the fireflies, urging me to hurry: "Go soon, fireflies are almost extinct..."

The bitter land, the burning summer heat reminds me of the green, magical, and cool lights of summer nights. I once pieced together the story of a poor student who used fireflies to light his books. Only later did I realize that the student, who used fireflies stored in an eggshell as a light source, was none other than President Tran Dai Quang, whose childhood was full of hardship. Sometimes, I smile as I remember my own story, feeling love flow from the corner of my eyes.

Now, summer is different. Electricity lights up every corner, fields shrink, hedges are cleared, and my fireflies have become a longing. Many nights, in strange dreams, I see my mother’s glass jar glowing brightly by my bedside. Amid the red light, a stream of green light crawls up my hand, spreading throughout the night. The wind, the most loyal servant, carries them toward the eternal light. Love. Crying for a species of larvae...

Ho Huy

The autumn sky had begun to set in, but the heat of summer still lingered. The southwest winds blew harshly, leaving people feeling drained. It seemed like summer had faded, leaving only the sweetness of the harvest behind. Yet, the worries about diseases hadn't lessened and had only grown more complicated. Concerns about jobs, the pain of fragile lives, and the constant restlessness were ever-present. One cool autumn evening, the power suddenly went out. Amid the dim glow of a faint crescent moon, and the weak light of a nearly dead smartphone, a firefly fluttered into the house. My 5-year-old child giggled in delight, forgetting their fear of the dark upon seeing it for the first time. I, too, felt a strange joy and a sense of nostalgia. A small, lonely light, so faint yet so evocative, transporting me back to distant memories.

Fireflies, also known as lightning bugs, belong to the Lampyridae family of insects, known for their bioluminescence. Although mostly found in temperate regions, many species live in tropical and subtropical climates, with around 2,000 species worldwide. They are carnivorous, feeding on insects and snails. These creatures are nocturnal, with males flying during early summer nights, while females often remain wingless. Both males, females, and larvae emit a cold light, usually in shades of orange-red or greenish-yellow (wavelengths between 510 and 670 nm); some species even have glowing eggs... (according to Wikipedia).

When a firefly enters the house, it brings back memories of my mother from our poor days. I recall how, in the past, whether to comfort her child or herself, my mother would say: “First, the fireflies come in; second, the mice hide; third, the lanterns bloom.” This old folk rhyme symbolized joy and luck. Back then, there was no day my mother didn't carry goods to the market—whether rice, sweet potatoes, or bundles of firewood that father had collected from the forest. Our family, like so many others in the village, lived with many children and few fields. We had no secondary occupation, and life revolved around the village, always fearing the harshness of the three-month famine.

When a firefly enters the house, I also remember my father’s gentle yet stern presence. He constantly reminded us of the importance of studying and maintaining good moral conduct, even though he only attended basic literacy classes. He feared we might fall behind, so he would share stories of dedicated scholars, such as the tale of the poor Mạc Đĩnh Chi, who, despite his hardship, managed to educate himself. He would collect firewood in the forest and learn by peeking into classrooms. When there was no oil lamp, he used fireflies in an eggshell to light his studies. With the light of fireflies, he surpassed thousands of others and became the highest-ranking scholar in the country, even earning the title of "Dual National Scholar." Though my father has passed, I still cherish his words: “Through hard work, you can succeed.”

When a firefly enters the house, it leads my thoughts to distant fairy tales, with fireflies from memories flickering through my mind, causing me to feel nostalgic. My childhood was simple, surrounded by the countryside, filled with longing. A childhood untouched by modern distractions—no hats, shoes, extra lessons, or smartphones; not like the childhoods of today. I remember countless summer nights chasing fireflies with friends, catching them in glass jars borrowed from the village nurse. We would use the glowing fireflies to hunt for beetles and cicadas, the night filled with the sound of insects chirping. On some nights, I would get lost, seeing the glowing trails in the distance that the elders would call “ghost lights,” scaring us back home.

When a firefly enters the house, I can't help but think of all the people who are like fireflies—like my parents, like the teachers of the past, who have devoted their lives to lighting the way for others, even at the cost of their own darkness. While mosquitoes buzz and geckos click, the fireflies shine. The sounds of the village are now the echoes of a bygone era, a song that those of us who have moved away from home can only long for. The fireflies that once visited our homes seem to be vanishing, just like the old rural traditions, despite our village still holding onto its past charm.

Could it be that the suffocating concrete jungle, the sealed-off concrete houses, the narrow fences, and crowded streets no longer leave room for the life of a firefly? Could it be that people have become so captivated by material comforts and artificial things that they have unknowingly forgotten the timeless beauty of nature? The village fields are sprayed with pesticides, the ponds are filled in, the bamboo groves have been cut down, and the old gardens have been replaced by new homes. Where have the fireflies of childhood gone? Are they like the young men and women from our village, scattered across the country, living in distant places, only occasionally returning, like fireflies lost on their way home?

Đinh Hạ