Pham Tien Duat

Truong Son East, Truong Son West

You and I, let us hang our hammocks in the same mountain jungle.
You and I - at opposite ends of the long mountain chain -
the road to the front so beautiful in this season.
The eastern mountains long so for the west.
One mountain, clouds of two colors.
There sun. Here rain. The sky too is different.
That's how it is with you and me, with South and North.
That's how it is with two slopes of one long single forest.

Western chain - I leave, my heart tight, my love
On the other slope under ceaseless rain, climbing shoulder of the trail,
carrying baskets of rice,
Swarming mosquitoes, thousands in the ancient jungle - pull down you sleeves.
Harvest over, where will you search for bamboo shoots now?

Your heart knotted, my love. And me, on the wintry slope:
streams dry, butterflies among the rocks.
You know, my head is high in unknown lands
but you think of the bombs that cut my path.

I climb into the truck and all the sky's rain pours down.
The windshield wiper brushes my nostalgia away.
You walk down the mountain and the sun sets splendor.
Tree branches keep our sorrows apart.
The trail that joins east to west carries no letters;
it carries bullets and rice.
On the eastern chain, a young girl in a green jack, hard at work.
On the western chain, a soldier in a green jacket…

From your side to mine,
wave after wave, troops march to the front.
Like love that joins words without end,
the east meets with the west.