To the sisters in North America and the elderly expatriates in Europe,
I know you are trying to stop your blood dripping from your wounds,
which spread everywhere on Earth.
To the old ladies in Australia and workers in Japan and Thailand,
I can see your eyes rimmed with tears in boiling anger.
And your faith burns like an immense fire.
To the anxious young bride in Taiwan,
and the homesick young woman in South Korea,
you are squirming in agonizing loneliness,
but still dream of hearing the late afternoon sounds of a wooden flute.
Somewhere high above,
in painful helplessness, our Mother is watching her children.
They are dying a slow death, waiting for a miracle.
Most kill time by enjoying the short life they have left.
They madly dance in brightly lit nightclubs and loud music.
They spend money for love or sex and rub naked skin and pink flesh.
They clink glasses and booze to the last drops,
on crowded sidewalks and in noisy eating places.
A few bold ones are fighting the ghost soldiers of the Death on the streets.
But nobody cares.
The hissing winds summon the souls of the dead warriors
over half filled pots of incense sticks on crushed graves and worn-out headstones.
They’ve witnessed the defeats and victories through centuries,
and seen heroism emerge in triumph.
Now, everything has been forgotten.
The sounds of the Mê Linh drumbeats are mere echoes from a distant past.
The Bạch Đằng waves sob and sigh in grief, remisniscing their once mighty force.
In the Chi Lăng Pass, the lonely ghosts of the Ming soldiers float in silence, still trembling
in awe of the humiliating defeat.
The Ngọc Hồi smokes linger on the ashes, lamenting for the heroic battle.
Brothers and sisters,
let’s bring the righteous spirit back to our Motherland,
where the free and the bold once stood in defiance of brutal oppression.
Let the powerful and brave spirit emerge.
Rise up and march,
to retake our land.
Dear Viets from the five continents and the four oceans,
and the North, the Central, and the South of Vietnam,
we have to do it, once and for all.
Linking our hands, we rise up and read loud our Manifesto.
It’s the united shout of the Diên Hồng Congress of the people.
We have to go to every city in Vietnam,
and spread the righteous words to all the people.
I go to Nghệ An and Huế Citadel.
Passing through Quy Nhơn, my body ached and my feet were sore.
But I can’t stop.
When there are too many things to say, many things to tell.
You return to Rạch Giá and Cần Thơ,
to see the weathered faces, to squeeze the bony hands of the peasants.
When you rest in Cà Mau,
make a wish in the mangrove forests.
Your wish will come true, they said.
Our big sister travels to Nha Trang and Đà Nẵng,
to distribute the leaflets to the dark-skinned workers.
She then stops at Pleiku, climbs a rolling hill.
Her steps are tired and heavy, but the dry air keeps her active.
Our youngest sister visits Thanh Hóa and Thái Bình,
to read our Manifesto to dozens of young students in their late teens.
She stays overnight at Hải Phòng,
and dreams of the Bạch Đằng stakes.
I leave Tuy Hòa, arrive in Quảng Trị,
rush to Đồng Hới, before returning to Phan Thiết.
The trip is tiring, but the cheers keep me in high spirit.
I know we are almost there.
Only a few more steps.
You continue to Long Xuyên, and then to Trà Vinh.
The smiles welcome you. The friendly arms embrace you.
When you are saying good bye to Sóc Trăng,
Our big sister is ready for Đà Lạt.
On her way, she stops at Buồn Ma Thuột.
The warm winds of the highland carry a melancholic air.
She cries.
Our little sister journeys to Hưng Yên, and then to Hải Dương,
before heading to Hạ Long Bay,
to enjoy a night of peaceful sleep in the heart of the serene natural wonder.
She dreams of Âu Cơ.
We’ve seen the faces and the smiles.
We’ve met our brothers and sisters.
We hugged and shook hands.
We laughed and cried.
We talked all night,
waiting for the sunrise.
It’s now time.
The people of Vietnam!
Rise up and march.
Crush the Fear.
Wipe out the Fraud.
Destroy the Ignorance.
Burn the Violence.
When the bright yellow flags fly in the blowing winds,
fluttering high above the cities, rivers, and mountains,
only then we smile and welcome the Hà Nội rain.
Let’s meet together and bask under the Sài Gòn sun.
I know you are trying to stop your blood dripping from your wounds,
which spread everywhere on Earth.
To the old ladies in Australia and workers in Japan and Thailand,
I can see your eyes rimmed with tears in boiling anger.
And your faith burns like an immense fire.
To the anxious young bride in Taiwan,
and the homesick young woman in South Korea,
you are squirming in agonizing loneliness,
but still dream of hearing the late afternoon sounds of a wooden flute.
Somewhere high above,
in painful helplessness, our Mother is watching her children.
They are dying a slow death, waiting for a miracle.
Most kill time by enjoying the short life they have left.
They madly dance in brightly lit nightclubs and loud music.
They spend money for love or sex and rub naked skin and pink flesh.
They clink glasses and booze to the last drops,
on crowded sidewalks and in noisy eating places.
A few bold ones are fighting the ghost soldiers of the Death on the streets.
But nobody cares.
The hissing winds summon the souls of the dead warriors
over half filled pots of incense sticks on crushed graves and worn-out headstones.
They’ve witnessed the defeats and victories through centuries,
and seen heroism emerge in triumph.
Now, everything has been forgotten.
The sounds of the Mê Linh drumbeats are mere echoes from a distant past.
The Bạch Đằng waves sob and sigh in grief, remisniscing their once mighty force.
In the Chi Lăng Pass, the lonely ghosts of the Ming soldiers float in silence, still trembling
in awe of the humiliating defeat.
The Ngọc Hồi smokes linger on the ashes, lamenting for the heroic battle.
Brothers and sisters,
let’s bring the righteous spirit back to our Motherland,
where the free and the bold once stood in defiance of brutal oppression.
Let the powerful and brave spirit emerge.
Rise up and march,
to retake our land.
Dear Viets from the five continents and the four oceans,
and the North, the Central, and the South of Vietnam,
we have to do it, once and for all.
Linking our hands, we rise up and read loud our Manifesto.
It’s the united shout of the Diên Hồng Congress of the people.
We have to go to every city in Vietnam,
and spread the righteous words to all the people.
I go to Nghệ An and Huế Citadel.
Passing through Quy Nhơn, my body ached and my feet were sore.
But I can’t stop.
When there are too many things to say, many things to tell.
You return to Rạch Giá and Cần Thơ,
to see the weathered faces, to squeeze the bony hands of the peasants.
When you rest in Cà Mau,
make a wish in the mangrove forests.
Your wish will come true, they said.
Our big sister travels to Nha Trang and Đà Nẵng,
to distribute the leaflets to the dark-skinned workers.
She then stops at Pleiku, climbs a rolling hill.
Her steps are tired and heavy, but the dry air keeps her active.
Our youngest sister visits Thanh Hóa and Thái Bình,
to read our Manifesto to dozens of young students in their late teens.
She stays overnight at Hải Phòng,
and dreams of the Bạch Đằng stakes.
I leave Tuy Hòa, arrive in Quảng Trị,
rush to Đồng Hới, before returning to Phan Thiết.
The trip is tiring, but the cheers keep me in high spirit.
I know we are almost there.
Only a few more steps.
You continue to Long Xuyên, and then to Trà Vinh.
The smiles welcome you. The friendly arms embrace you.
When you are saying good bye to Sóc Trăng,
Our big sister is ready for Đà Lạt.
On her way, she stops at Buồn Ma Thuột.
The warm winds of the highland carry a melancholic air.
She cries.
Our little sister journeys to Hưng Yên, and then to Hải Dương,
before heading to Hạ Long Bay,
to enjoy a night of peaceful sleep in the heart of the serene natural wonder.
She dreams of Âu Cơ.
We’ve seen the faces and the smiles.
We’ve met our brothers and sisters.
We hugged and shook hands.
We laughed and cried.
We talked all night,
waiting for the sunrise.
It’s now time.
The people of Vietnam!
Rise up and march.
Crush the Fear.
Wipe out the Fraud.
Destroy the Ignorance.
Burn the Violence.
When the bright yellow flags fly in the blowing winds,
fluttering high above the cities, rivers, and mountains,
only then we smile and welcome the Hà Nội rain.
Let’s meet together and bask under the Sài Gòn sun.
