Judged by the Lord of the Underworld

Nationalists die, but still aren’t free—
They chase Viet Cong ghosts for eternity.
Even in death, the debt’s not paid,
Their restless souls still seek crusade.

They gather online, cursing names—
Trịnh Công Sơn, they shout in blame.
“Undercover red!” they cry and jeer,
Though Sơn’s long gone, the rage is near.

Liên Thành’s passed too, now underground,
Truth and lies swirl all around.
Diêm Vương calls court to order:
“Speak now—or die again in horror!”

“Who’s a nationalist? Step to the right.
Who’s a communist? Step left tonight.
Trịnh Công Sơn, what did you do?
Why do they curse and accuse you?”

“Is it true?” the Lord demands.
“What’s a ‘nationalist’? Who takes which stand?
I don’t care for labels or pride—
Just tell me the truth you tried to hide.”

Sơn bows low and calmly speaks:
“I wrote songs for the voiceless and weak.
What I saw, I wrote—no more, no less.
No slogans, no lies, no fancy dress.”

“A civil war—North against South,
Brother against brother, hand to mouth.
Same blood, same name, same land,
Split by flags none could withstand.”

“My songs? If you must know,
Let me list them before I go:
Here are the following songs
That I wrote;

Lullaby for the Night Patrol, (Đại Bát Ru Đêm)
For Those Who Lay Down (Cho Người Nằm Xuống)
Footprints of the Eagle (Dấu Chân Địa Bàng),
Dust of Love Grown Cold (Cát Bụi Tình Xa).

A Mother’s Legacy (Gia Tài Của Mẹ),
Let the Wind Carry It Free (Để Gió Cuốn Đi),
Like a Flying Crane (Như Cánh Vạc Bay),
Where Do We Come From, Truly? (Biết Đâu Nguồn Cội)

Calling the Four Seasons (Gọi Tên Bốn Mùa),
Lull Me in Bitterness (Ru Ta Ngậm Nguồi),
Join Hands in One Circle (Nối Vòng Tay Lớn),
A Realm to Return and Rest (Một Cõi Đi Về).

“These were my truths, sung by Khánh Ly,
In cafés where both sides danced nearby.
While the South waltzed, the North dug deep—
Each side dreaming, neither asleep.”

“Then came April, the thirtieth day—
The Viet Cong swept Saigon away.
The Republic fell, renamed anew,
And millions fled, unsure what to do.”

“Decades passed in foreign lands,
Still the anger burns in hands.
Still they curse, still they blame,
Still they chant the same old names.”

“No artist spared, no singer free— ‘
Ate from the South, prayed to the Red,’ they decree.
Even in death, they spit and shout—
But now, Diêm Vương, you sort it out.”

“Liên Thành, step forward now—
Why accuse Sơn? What’s your vow?”

“I was Chief of Hue’s Police,” he said,
“From ’66 till the South was dead.
I fled on April’s final day—
But I still fight in my own way.”

Diêm Vương roared: “Enough of this!
What’s a ‘nationalist’? What’s a ‘communist’?
Why the hate? Why the war?
What were you fighting each other for?”

“I don’t care what rank you held,
Or how long your badge was spelled.
I want to know who lied, who stole,
Who tortured innocents, who lost control.”

“Who extorted? Who betrayed?
Who made Hue’s streets a mass grave?
Who took bribes? Who beat the weak?
Who made the people afraid to speak?”

“I know it all—don’t play coy.
Confess now, or face the boiling void.
Oil and fire, limbs torn wide—
No mercy left on this dark side.”

“Cry all you want, it’s far too late.
The ox-headed guards await your fate.
Those who slandered, those who lied—
Cut their tongues, let justice decide.”

Court dismissed.
Long live the Lord of the Underworld.

(VietPhilly—August,1, 2023)