ON THE MUZZLE OF OUR GUNS
On the muzzle of our guns, our homeland rises.
On the bayonet’s edge, fury surges like tidal waves.
Oh, the stirring gongs and drums urging us forward,
Rousing every place with vibrant calls.
Oh, the sacred fire flaring and crackling,
One hand lighting the flames, the other raising the sword.
On the invading gun barrels lie chains and tyranny.
On the bayonet’s edge, the shackles of slavery fall.
Hands gently lift the steel rifle,
With fresh brass rounds already chambered.
And those golden brass volleys
Will sow rice to flourish across the deep fields.
So that our homeland may shine bright.
So that love may rise immeasurably high.
So that our homeland may have blossoms of youthful spring.
So that tomorrow we may hear the sunlight awaken peace.
So that our forefathers may still hold the earth that covers them.
Oh, our homeland — Vietnam.
From there rose factories and construction sites,
Enterprises, schools, hospitals, and mines.
Oh, vast, deep, and boundless—golden fields stretching wide
With green bamboo hedges.
And the three soft syllables chanted at the village gate
Are prayers for those who have fallen.
On the muzzle of our guns, our homeland rises.
On the bayonet’s edge, fury surges like tidal waves.
Oh, the stirring gongs and drums urging us forward,
Rousing every place with vibrant calls.
Oh, the sacred fire flaring and crackling,
One hand lighting the flames, the other raising the sword.
On the invading gun barrels lie chains and tyranny.
On the bayonet’s edge, the shackles of slavery fall.
Hands gently lift the steel rifle,
With fresh brass rounds already chambered.
And those golden brass volleys
Will sow rice to flourish across the deep fields.
So that our homeland may shine bright.
So that love may rise immeasurably high.
So that our homeland may have blossoms of youthful spring.
So that tomorrow we may hear the sunlight awaken peace.
So that our forefathers may still hold the earth that covers them.
Oh, our homeland — Vietnam.
From there rose factories and construction sites,
Enterprises, schools, hospitals, and mines.
Oh, vast, deep, and boundless—golden fields stretching wide
With green bamboo hedges.
And the three soft syllables chanted at the village gate
Are prayers for those who have fallen.
So that tomorrow we may hear the sunlight awaken peace.
So that our forefathers may still hold the earth that covers them.
Oh, our homeland — Vietnam.