He first saw her on a dark morning
With amber sky and rotten corpse
With smoke from unharvested fields
With people scattering on the ground like spilled grains of rice.
She was a young girl in her mother's arms
Wearing the dirty burnt clothes her mother made on sleepless nights
Hair tied into locks on her side, black as the sky of New Year Eve
Hand in her mother's, another with a flute.
He saw her little family standing all alone in the middle of nowhere, with old people huddling together and children staying close to parents
It looked sad and pathetic.
He raised out a hand to her, while his men pointed swords at her family
He told her, let's go home.
She looked so small, so lost among the grown-ups, so innocent in front of the hundreds of swords, so drowned in the stomping hooves of horses.
But her eyes were filled with light
She was staring at them, but in her eyes were her people
There were only them and them.
She push away his hand and her people struck back.
He watched that small back running away
That tiny back was gone among the ones of adults and children.
'This is my home!'
*******
Once he crossed by the gate of her home.
It was just a thin line, the fragile border separating him with her. If he wanted he could climb over it.
So he did.
He walked around, looking for that little girl in the mountains
Down the land, by the sea
He couldn't find that little figure anywhere.
All he found was a nameless, familiar melody of a flute, wherever he went.
*******
His king was in the north, and hers was in the south.
His king needed vast land, her king only wanted to keep what was his.
His king wanted him to go conquer her, the lost child that ran away from home
Her king wanted her to stay with mother earth, with the people by the paddy fields, with the farm hen and the river.
He, who was a country, took his people to the gate, crossed it like open the door of their home and struck in the mountainous region.
She, who was a country, gathered her people, with simple weapons and a flute in hand, defended their sanctuary.
He, who was the country of the north, had more people, had more food, had more experiences, had so much more than her.
She, who was the country of the south, had a few people, had less food, had no experiences in war, had almost nothing at all.
He had the land of the north and the ambition to bring her home.
She had the heart for her home and the generations of people who would never leave her side.
He went into war with a sword in his right hand and the rein of the horse in the other.
She went into war with a bow in her right hand and the flute in another.
And her heart in everyone.
She lost to her princess, who betrayed her country for a man of the north.
He won and brought her home in vain.
For a thousand years, she was locked up in a golden cage, wearing fancy clothes from his country, taught how to speak and sing in his language.
She looked pretty with a flower in her hair, dancing as the music went on under an endless starlit sky. She smiled meekly at his king, who was content with his achievement, with him who was drowning himself in wine.
He was so drunk.
But when he was not, he saw a lonely young girl, hair flowing down like a darkwater stream, eyes glimmering with hope while staring down at her suffering people. He would see her playing that nameless melody with her broken flute, making broken notes and shattered heart.
He saw something sparkled in those deep oriental eyes
He thought it was pretty.
Until the day she destroyed the lock of her cage and fled away into the sky, heading south.
The day she arrived was the day his soldiers died with damaged ships and his prince died.
Sometimes, in his dream of a lane of the countryside, he heard that peaceful and longing sound played by a flute.
He would wake up and find himself in a golden cage.
*******
His king died and another one claimed the throne. And another. And another.
They all wanted that piece of land in the south, that land with peaceful people working on peaceful fields, with the sea filled with treasures and the forests holding their own fortune.
They wanted him to go out for her, again.
So he did. He simply missed those determined eyes.
Everytime his people came to the land, they saw a girl with a flute in hand, playing a nameless song.
The song was so peaceful, so pretty, yet so longing and heart-breaking. It was like the call of home, of mother and sister, of wife and children. It was like the pain of war, the beauty of nature, the smile behind the sweats. It was the song of home.
She played it, while armed men lined up besides her, waiting for her order.
Someone would still have some common sense and would shot an arrow at her.
The moment when the first red drop touched the ground, her men went into battlefield and cut off the head of the one who touched her, who did harm to their sacred land.
*******
Years went by and he was tired of fighting. He simply wanted to see her again, so hear her song again.
Once in a while, he would ride a horse into town, look around for a girl with a flute in hand, with long black hair tied up in a bun, skipping happily to the fields.
He would see her dance among the crops, sing to the cattles, smile with the hardworking farmers. He would see her laugh heartily, being splashed with rich salty water of the sea. He would see her eyes shone at a new canal, would see those eyes filled with pride at the annual national exams, would see those eyes smile to him when they were enjoying tea while chatting about poems.
He would see her, out of her beautiful clothes and into the typical one, her hair down like a curtain of the night, her eyes barely opened while sitting by a lazy buffalo, playing that song that enchanted the whole land. He would sit next to her, playing with dried hay in his hand while enjoying the magic she was spreading on her people.
He would see a very typical girl, the young girl who ran away from him thousands of years ago.
*******
France came to her and England came to him.
They were both conquered,
His body was cut into pieces, like bits of cheesecake on a coffee table at dessert time. She was splited into three and was a stringless puppet in the invader's hands.
For the very first time in ages, she took his hand and together became Communists.
He kicked Germany, France, England and the others away from his home. He got back what was his, his shattered but very own country, very own self.
Looking at his people building up a world from the shattered pieces of broken land, looking at them following him to the end of the world, he thought of her.
He started to understand why she was so in love with her home.
She wasn't so lucky. America was a young kid who rarely saw any decent woman and just couldn't wait to pounce her.
He watched in desperation as she struggled to keep America away from her self. She was locked in the insolent brat's arms.
Her people were drifting apart. So she smiled for them while crying for the country.
He wanted to help, but he couldn't. They were both on their own and afterwards, she miraculously kicked America back home.
He wanted to run and congrat her, the brave and loyal girl of the country.
He went to her place and saw his northern neighbour already walking besides her, who was smiling cheerfully.
He turned around just in time to hear the song going off from a mended, bamboo flute.
*******
He was a country.
He was a person.
He was personified country. And he dreamt of a sweet and brave girl.
He wanted her. She didn't want him. She was her own's, hers and hers only. He was a neighbour and forever someone next door.
He didn't like it.
He got his people to block the rivers, to make her rivers dried up, to make her people die from hunger, to make her surrender.
She didn't.
He sent his navy to the sea, hurting her people who went out to feed their family, to hurt her human-loving heart.
It didn't.
He tried all the methods he could think of, just to be able to lock her up again.
But to no avail.
She was still free as a crane flying across the vast field, her hair flying in the wind and her fingers moving along the flute.
She was Vietnam, afterall.
*******
Once, he asked her as a joke
'Come back home with me won't you?'
She frowned at him, her eyes shone with transculent light, the light that had always existed since that day she fled from China.
'This is my home!'
*******
He would hear an occassional song. It would be all pretty and lovely, but none was like hers.
Once in a while, he would dream of that girl by a buffalo, dipped with gold on a paddy field at sundown, smiled into her song.
He would dream of her, for she was Vietnam.