Like its original recording by Khánh Ly in the 1970s, this song of Trịnh Công Sơn is quietly remarkable if also underrated. It’s been rumored that he wrote in 1964, and it was the first song that he “gifted” (dedicated to?) Khánh Ly. From what I’ve seen, it was either speculation (that he wrote it for her) or wild speculation (that he was inspired by her and the lyrics were about her). There’s no way of knowing without clear verification.
It shouldn’t matter all that much. The song is notable because the lyrics are about a woman, but they are not about a young man expressing his romantic feeling to her. They instead reflect the narrator’s observation of her current station, followed by his longing for her return to him. But return from what? The song isn’t entirely clear on this point. There’s a mystery to the situation, which is a reason for the popularity of the song.
The lyrics are organized into three verses and without a chorus. At least the first verse is typically sung slowly, almost like speaking. Khánh Ly released at least two different recordings of the song before 1975. In this version, her vocals are accompanied by a piano for the first minute and forty seconds before other instruments join in.
Both the woman and the forest of the title appear in all the verses. The lyrics of the first verse quickly establishes this association:
Ta thấy em trong tiền kiếp, với cọng buồn cỏ cây,
Ta thấy em đang ngồi khóc, khi rừng chiều đổ mưa,
Rừng thu lá úa, em vẫn chưa về,
Rừng đông cuốn gió, em đứng bơ vơ.
I see you in a past life, alongside the sad flora,
I see you crying while the woods rains in the afternoon,
Leaves fade and the woods turn autumnal [but] you haven’t gone back,
Winds sweep the wintry woods [yet] you stand lonely.
The young woman may appear mysterious, even a touch mystical, but she isn’t essentialized as she might be in some other songs of TCS. The focus, rather, is on the narrator’s observation of her past life: one away from society and, possibly, trapped in the forest.
The second verse is a variation of the first. Most vocalists, including Khánh Ly in the recording above, tend to sing it in the same way that they do the first verse.
Ta thấy em trong tiền kiếp, với mặt trời lẻ loi,
Ta thấy em đang ngồi hát, khi rừng về nhiều mây,
Rừng thu thay lá, mưa bay buồn rầu,
Rừng đông buốt giá, mưa bay dạt dào.
I see you in a past life, alongside a lonely sun,
I see you sitting and singing, while clouds gather over the woods.
The autumnal forest change leaves, and dreary rain drops,
The woods in winter freezes, and windy rain falls.
Without a chorus, the third verse shifts from the first two verses but not drastically. The focus shifts from the woman to the narrator, who ends the song by urging her to leave the woods and return to his long-waiting self.
Ta vẫn mong, ta chờ mãi, trên từng ngày quạnh hiu,
Ta vẫn mong em về đây, cho đời đầy cuộc vui,
Mùa xuân đã đến, em hãy quay về,
Rừng xưa đã khép, em hãy ra đi.
I still hope, I still wait, over each and all lonely days,
I still hope you return here, so life would be joyful,
Spring has arrived, please come back,
The old woods have closed, please depart from it.
The references to “past life” tempts us into considering Buddhist concepts and beliefs in this song. And the notion of a forest being closed–rừng khép–is intriguingly quasi-mystical. But I have doubt about this association. The last verse suggests that the narrator and the woman had known and, possibly, loved each other. (He loved her, for sure). It’s about the narrator waiting and longing for reunion with the woman. There’s no indication that she had died. His longing does not sound irrational, but genuine and true. Unlike most popular romantic songs in the Republic of Vietnam, this one is about reunion rather than union in the first place.
Rừng xưa đã khép isn’t among the most popular songs of TCS, and its performances are relatively few in between. One of the best recordings after 1975, if not the best, is the following by Mộc San from November 2023. A main reason for its beauty is the lone accompanying guitar.
This version of Mộc San favors minimalism. To the opposite end of the spectrum is the following performance in one of the Paris By Night programs. Let’s just say that it is, hmm, odd.
A lot better is the following recording by Lệ Thu from 1971. The voice is possibly the clearest I’ve ever heard of her.
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