By Vương Thanh — A critical review of the English translations of The Tale of Kiều (as listed in the corresponding Wikipedia article), and an argument in favor of lyrical free verse.
When I first encountered English translations of The Tale of Kiều — Nguyễn Du’s great poetic novel and cultural treasure — I was struck not by their beauty, but by their shortcomings. The tone felt off. The rhythm lacked vitality. Nguyễn Du’s voice, so resonant in Vietnamese, often vanished — filtered through the wrong idiom, poetic form, or emotional register. Some lines were left out entirely; others were flattened into prose or reshaped to fit rigid English verse structures. Many translators approached the work with respect, but used the wrong methods — formal constraints, academic literalism, or sentimental simplification — on a poem that lives and breathes through the musical flow of Vietnamese verse.
I decided to translate Kiều because I wanted the English-speaking world to truly hear Nguyễn Du’s voice — something still missing in existing versions. My goal was to create a faithful translation that captures the meaning, richness, emotional intensity, musicality, and poetic flow of the original. Not through borrowed rhythms or forced structures, but through a form that lets Nguyễn Du’s voice move freely across language and time.
As a bilingual lyrical poet — fluent in the craft of rhythm and rhyme in both Vietnamese and English poetry, with Vietnamese as my native tongue and a deep understanding of classical Chinese and Vietnamese culture and the Sino-Vietnamese language — I bring to this translation an insider’s sensitivity to cultural and emotional nuance, and a poet’s ear for tone and movement. My translation is not line-for-line, but heart-for-heart: lyrical free verse that seeks to echo Nguyễn Du’s cadences without confining them in foreign forms.
This essay lays out why lyrical free verse is the only true approach to translating The Tale of Kiều. It shows how other methods — whether rigidly formalist, overly literal, or simplified — fail to capture the emotional, poetic, and cultural soul of the original. These are not small missteps: they are structural and interpretive flaws that distort how English-speaking readers experience Kiều. In contrast, my approach seeks to restore Nguyễn Du’s voice with clarity, resonance, and integrity.
What follows is a close comparative reading — highlighting how well-known translations, including those by Huỳnh Sanh Thông, Vladislav Zhukov, Timothy Allen, and Michael Counsell, fall short in essential ways. Through these examples, I demonstrate why only a free, lyrical approach — faithful to meaning and alive in poetic tone — can carry Kiều across languages without losing its soul.
The Sound and Structure of Lục Bát — and Why English Must Translate Differently
To understand why Nguyễn Du’s The Tale of Kiều resists rigid English poetic forms, we must begin with the form he used: lục bát, the traditional Vietnamese “six-eight” verse. Each stanza consists of a six-syllable line followed by an eight-syllable line, forming a couplet. What makes this structure unique is its interlocking rhyme scheme:
- The final syllable of the six-syllable line rhymes with the sixth syllable of the eight-syllable line.
- The final syllable of that eight-syllable line then becomes the rhyming word for the next six-syllable line, and the cycle continues.
This creates a gentle, undulating rhythm — a continuous wave of rhyme that is deeply musical and emotionally resonant.
Equally important is the nature of Vietnamese rhyme itself. Vietnamese poetry, and especially lục bát, is not built around consonant-heavy end rhymes like in English heroic couplets. Instead, it leans heavily on vowel rhyming and tonal matching. Many rhymes that appear “slanted” or imperfect to an English ear — like vời/ngoài or ông/ung — are, in fact, perfectly acceptable in Vietnamese, thanks to a flexible system of phonetic grouping known as “thông vận.”
Moreover, lục bát adheres to subtle tonal constraints that are rarely discussed but keenly felt by native speakers. For example, the final syllable of each line should typically fall into the “bằng” tone group — level or falling tones like không dấu or huyền. These aren’t arbitrary rules; they’re what give lục bát its tranquil, melodious feel. When broken, even native speakers can sense that something is off — the music stumbles.
This is why translating Kiều into English heroic couplets, with their rigid rhyme, meter, and consonantal stress patterns, is not only a poor fit — it’s a fundamental misunderstanding of the source. Heroic couplets prioritize perfect end rhymes and strict meter, which forces translators to alter meaning, truncate imagery, or insert inappropriate synonyms just to hit the rhyme. In contrast, lyrical free verse in English offers the flexibility to preserve the full meaning, the emotional tone, and even the music of the original through assonance, internal echo, and natural cadence.
To see this in action, we now turn to side-by-side comparisons of translations of Kiều’s famous opening lines — a passage so well known that any loss in tone or clarity is immediately felt. First, we present the original and a literal prose rendering to ground our comparison.
Original Vietnamese:
Trăm năm trong cõi người ta
Chữ tài, chữ mệnh khéo là ghét nhau
Trải qua một cuộc bể dâu
Những điều trông thấy mà đau đớn lòng
Lạ gì bỉ sắc tư phong
Trời xanh quen thói má hồng đánh ghen
Prose translation (literal, faithful):
A hundred years in the life of a human being.
The word “Talent” and the word “Destiny” tend to oppose each other.
Lived through a mulberry-field-becoming-sea event.
The things that one saw pain one’s heart.
It’s nothing unusual for beauty to lead to suffering.
Heaven has a habit of committing jealous acts toward beautiful women.
Comparative Translations of the Opening Six Lines
The choice to analyze only the first six lines of The Tale of Kiều stems from their availability on Wikipedia, where various English translations are presented side by side. While a longer passage would offer a fuller picture of each translator’s skill and style, these opening lines remain vital for understanding how translators handle the poem’s tone, meaning, and lyricism at its very outset.
This essay compares several major English translations of The Tale of Kiều, alongside my own, to explore how meaning, style, and emotional depth are preserved — or lost — in the process.
Among the versions featured on Wikipedia is a lyrical rendering by Lê Xuân Thụy, who is also known for a prose translation of The Tale of Kiều that has circulated for decades. While these six lines appear in verse form, the larger body of his work seems to be prose-based. Since this essay is focused on poetry-to-poetry translation — faithfully capturing Nguyễn Du’s lyricism and tonal nuance — we will not examine his work further in this context.
Translation by Michael Counsell:
What tragedies take place
within each circling space of years!
‘Rich in good looks’ appears
to mean poor luck and tears of woe;
which may sound strange, I know,
but is not really so, I swear,
since Heaven everywhere
seems jealous of the fair of face.
Counsell’s version commits a fundamental flaw from the outset: attempting to mimic the lục bát form using rigid 6–8 rhyming couplets in English. This is a category error. Vietnamese is a monosyllabic language; English is not. Where “đẹp” is a single syllable in Vietnamese, its English equivalent “beautiful” is three syllables. Likewise, “kinh khủng” becomes “terrifying” or “incredible” — each with four syllables. Trying to match Nguyễn Du’s syllabic structure in English leads inevitably to loss of nuance, emotional resonance, and even basic meaning.
This misguided commitment to form over substance forces the translator to contort the poem, inserting rhymes that don’t belong, padding or shortening lines unnaturally, and ultimately replacing Nguyễn Du’s voice with his own. The result is not a poetic translation — it is a poem loosely inspired by Kiều, reshaped to fit an alien form.
The consequences are visible in every line:
- “What tragedies take place / within each circling space of years!”
A convoluted way of saying “In a hundred years of human life.” The phrase “circling space of years” is vague and overwrought, obscuring the plain existential tone of the original. - “Rich in good looks appears / to mean poor luck and tears of woe”
This distorts the original meaning, which concerns the tension between tài (talent) and mệnh (fate) — not simply “good looks” and “tears.” Nguyen Du’s philosophical fatalism becomes a fortune-cookie aphorism. - “Which may sound strange, I know, / but is not really so, I swear”
The tone here is almost whimsical — casual, modern, and even flippant. Phrases like “I know” and “I swear” sound like a children’s story or nursery rhyme. In Vietnamese, we would say this version has “dịch chết thơ” — a translation that kills the poetry. - “Seems jealous of the fair of face”
A watered-down rendering of “Trời xanh quen thói má hồng đánh ghen,” which literally evokes heaven as a force that habitually punishes beauty. “Jealous of the fair of face” sounds like a polite Victorian complaint, not a philosophical lament on fate and suffering.
Overall, this is not a faithful translation. It’s a reinvention, written in a singsong rhyming scheme more suited for kindergarten than for Nguyễn Du’s tragic, deeply philosophical verse. The translator’s imposition of an English rhyming couplet format — both structurally and tonally — erases the voice of Nguyễn Du and replaces it with something unrecognizable. It fails the test of fidelity, tone, and poetic sense on all counts.
Translation by Timothy Allen:
It’s an old story: good luck and good looks
don’t always mix.
Tragedy is circular and infinite.
The plain never believe it,
but good-looking people meet with hard times too.
It’s true.
Our ending is inevitable:
long years betray the beautiful.
Timothy Allen’s translation departs significantly from Nguyễn Du’s original wording and tone. The very first line, for instance, omits the crucial image of “a hundred years in the life of a human,” replacing it with a vague “old story.” Phrases like “tragedy is circular and infinite” attempt to convey the idea of bể dâu but fall short of its rich cultural and emotional resonance. The line “the plain never believe it” is entirely invented and bears no connection to the original text’s meaning or context. Moreover, Allen’s use of “good-looking people” in place of the specific “beautiful women” of Nguyễn Du’s poem generalizes and dilutes the original’s thematic focus. The casual phrase “hard times too” introduces a colloquial tone that is inconsistent with the literary and lyrical atmosphere of Kiều. The final “It’s true” is an oversimplified assertion foreign to Nguyễn Du’s nuanced expression.
Timothy Allen’s version is not really a translation of the beautiful and refined verses of Kiều, but rather a colloquial retelling in his own words.
Translation by Vladislav Zhukov:
Were full five-score the years allotted to born man,
How oft his qualities might yield within that span to fate forlorn!
In time the mulberry reclaims the sunk sea-bourn,
And what the gliding eye may first find fair weighs mournful on the heart.
Uncanny? Nay — lack ever proved glut’s counterpart,
And mindful are the gods on rosy cheeks to dart celestial spite…
Vladislav Zhukov’s translation adopts a free verse form with flexible line lengths and both end and internal rhymes, loosely echoing the flow of lục bát. But his language quickly veers into the ornate and artificial. Phrases like “gliding eye” feel strained and unnatural, while rhetorical flourishes such as “Uncanny? Nay — ” introduce a voice alien to Nguyễn Du’s quiet, sorrowful tone. Archaic constructions like “sea-bourn” and “celestial spite” elevate the diction to a point of abstraction, clouding the emotional clarity of the original.
Most telling is how a direct and deeply human line such as “The things that one saw pains one’s heart” is rendered as “And what the gliding eye may first find fair weighs mournful on the heart” — a convoluted, diluted rewrite. This translation is not only stylistically self-conscious but fundamentally unfaithful in spirit and substance. And this is just the first six lines. If we had access to more of Zhukov’s translation, the patterns of over-embellishment and interpretive liberties would likely grow more pronounced.
Translation by Nguyễn Văn Bình:
A hundred years alive in Man’s demesne,
‘Tween Fate and Talent hatred seems to reign.
Of oceans changed to various berry plains,
The sight imbues the heart with cruel pains.
It is not strange that no one’s rich in all,
That rosy cheeks cause envious Heav’n to brawl.
Nguyễn Văn Bình’s translation follows the structure of the English heroic couplet, a form requiring rhymed iambic pentameter. Right away, the constraints of this structure produce distortions. “Demesne” is an archaic and needlessly lofty term for “world,” used here seemingly to force a rhyme with “reign.” The phrase “rosy cheeks cause envious Heav’n to brawl” reduces a subtle reflection on suffering to something cartoonish and overwrought. “Brawl” is especially jarring — Nguyễn Du’s tone is lamenting, not combative. Throughout, the pressure to maintain rhyme and meter leads to inflated diction (“oceans changed to various berry plains”) and paraphrasing that veers far from the spirit and simplicity of the original. And this is only the first six lines — an early glimpse at how rigid formal constraints can derail both meaning and emotional tone.
Translation by Huỳnh Sanh Thông:
A hundred years — in this life span on earth,
talent and destiny are apt to feud.
You must go through a play of ebb and flow
and watch such things as make you sick at heart.
Is it so strange that losses balance gains?
Blue Heaven’s wont to strike a rose from spite.
Comments:
Tone shift: The shift to second person (“You must go…”) is jarring. Nguyễn Du speaks from a reflective, third-person, omniscient voice — not directly to the reader. This personalization distorts the poem’s meditative tone.
“Play of ebb and flow”: While metaphorical, it waters down the powerful Vietnamese idiom “bể dâu,” which evokes massive upheaval — the sea swallowing the mulberry fields. This line sounds passive, even soothing — inappropriate for a poem marked by suffering and impermanence.
“Make you sick at heart”: Colloquial and too weak. Nguyễn Du’s line “những điều trông thấy mà đau đớn lòng” expresses piercing sorrow — not mild discomfort or disgust.
“Strike a rose from spite”: Sounds almost violent or physical, which isn’t quite the point. “Đánh ghen” implies Heaven’s envy or punishment of beauty, but not necessarily “striking” as in assault. The tone is off, and “rose” is a soft metaphor, but in this context, it feels clichéd and vague.
Translation by Phan Huy MPH:
In the hundred-year span of a human life,
Talent and fate are always apt to strife.
Through experience of a harrowing change,
What we witnessed filled our hearts with tearing pain.
’Tis not a wonder that Heaven gives then takes,
And with the fair sex He used to be jealous.
Comments:
Maintains the third-person reflective tone true to Nguyễn Du’s original voice.
“Harrowing change” captures the turmoil of “bể dâu” reasonably well.
“Tearing pain” conveys the emotional intensity more faithfully than many alternatives.
The phrase about Heaven’s jealousy is subtle but sufficient, especially paired with “Heaven gives then takes,” implying the complex relationship with beauty and fate.
Overall, this translation respects the original tone and meaning without unnecessary flourishes or distortions.
Translation by Vuong Thanh (my translation):
Within a hundred-year lifespan in this earthly world,
Genius and Destiny have a tendency to oppose each other.
A turbulent mulberry-field-covered-by-sea period had passed.
The things that we saw still deeply pain our hearts.
It’s not strange that beauty may beget misery.
The jealous gods tend to heap spites on rosy-cheeked beauties.
Unlike the other translations we’ve reviewed — which were limited to only the first six lines — we have access to the complete translations by Huỳnh Sanh Thông and Phan Huy. This allows for a fuller, fairer analysis of their approach, strengths, and weaknesses.
Next, we will look at the description of Thúy Kiều and Thúy Vân (lines 15–28) by Huỳnh Sanh Thông, and Phan Huy.
Original:
Đầu lòng hai ả tố nga (15)
Thúy Kiều là chị, em là Thúy Vân
Mai cốt cách, tuyết tình thần
Mỗi người một vẻ, mười phân vẹn mười.
Vân xem trang trọng khác vời
Khuôn trăng đầy đặn, nét ngài nở nang (20)
Hoa cười, ngọc thốt, đoan trang
Mây thua nước tóc, tuyết nhường màu da.
Kiều càng sắc sảo mặn mà
So bề tài sắc vẫn là phần hơn
Làn thu thủy, nét xuân sơn (25)
Hoa ghen thua thắm, liễu hờn kém xanh
Một hai nghiêng nước nghiêng thành
Sắc đành đòi một, tài đành hoạ hai.
Prose Translation (Faithful, Neutral Tone):
The firstborns were two beautiful young women.
Thúy Kiều was the elder, Thúy Vân the younger.
Slender like the apricot branch, pure in spirit like snow.
Each possessed her own charm, each was flawless in her own way.
Vân had a dignified and graceful presence.
Her face was full and bright like the moon,
her eyebrows arched delicately like silkworm brows.
Her smile as fresh as blooming flowers, her voice like pearls.
Her speech was modest, gentle, and composed.
Clouds paled before her flowing hair,
and snow yielded to the whiteness of her skin.
Kiều was all the more intelligent and deeply alluring.
In both talent and beauty, she clearly excelled.
Her eyes were like calm autumn water,
her brows like distant spring hills.
Flowers grew jealous of her radiance,
willows sulked at her fresh greenness.
She could topple a city with one glance,
a kingdom with two.
In beauty, she had no rival;
in talent, perhaps only one or two might come close.
Translation by Huỳnh Sanh Thông for lines 15–28
Two daughters, beauties both, had come before:
Thúy Kiều was oldest, younger was Thúy Vân
Bodies like slim plum branches, snow-pure souls
each her own self, each perfect in her way.
In quiet grace, Vân was beyond compare:
her face a moon, her eyebrows two full curves;
her smile a flower, her voice the song of jade;
her hair the sheen of clouds, her skin white snow.
Yet Kiều posessed a keener, deeper charm,
surpassing Vân in talents and in looks.
Her eyes were autumn streams, her brows spring hills.
Flowers grudged her glamour, willows her fresh hue
A glance or two from her, and kingdoms rocked!*
Supreme in looks, she had few peers in gifts.
Comments on Huỳnh Sanh Thông’s Translation (Lines 15–28):
Huỳnh Sanh Thông’s translation, though fluent and poetic at first glance, suffers from a number of significant issues in both tone and content. By adhering strictly to a 14-line format that mirrors the original Vietnamese, he compresses the imagery and meaning, inevitably omitting key emotional and descriptive elements.
Notably, the translation tends to flatten Nguyễn Du’s layered metaphors. The famous image of “clouds yielding to her hair, snow surrendering to her skin” — a vibrant metaphor of nature’s awe before Vân’s beauty — is reduced to mere comparisons, stripped of their original dramatic tension. Similarly, Vân’s moral grace (“đoan trang”) is simply left out, narrowing her portrayal to surface-level beauty.
The diction can also feel awkward or inappropriate. Phrases like “bodies like slim plum branches” sound jarring in English, while vague terms like “each her own self” or “few peers in gifts” dilute the clarity of Nguyễn Du’s meaning. Emotional force is lost in lines like “each perfect in her way” or “beyond compare,” which generalize rather than evoke.
These choices reflect the central limitation of this approach: by forcing each English line to match a Vietnamese original, the translation sacrifices emotional depth, subtle characterization, and poetic precision. The result is readable but often flat — a version that gestures at the original’s brilliance without fully conveying its resonance.
The following is my own translation of the passage describing Thúy Vân and Thúy Kiều. While the original consists of 14 lines, my version expands to 19. This was a deliberate choice: translating line for line often risks losing the richness, nuance, and emotional depth of Nguyễn Du’s verse. Instead, I’ve prioritized clarity, musicality, and faithfulness to the spirit of the original.
The rhyming couplets emerged naturally during the process — not through forced phrasing, but as a reflection of the poem’s internal rhythm. My aim has always been to preserve meaning and poetic tone, rather than adhere strictly to form.
Translation by Vuong Thanh for lines 15–28:
The first-borns were two beautiful daughters.
Thúy Kiều the eldest, Thúy Vân the younger.
Apricot slender in frame, snow pure in spirit.
Each to her own charms, but both girls were perfect.
Vân’s beauty was very remarkable.
Her eyebrows — full crescent arcs, her moonlit face — oval.
Jades tingled in her voice; flowers bloomed from her smile.
Her speech: educated, chaste and refined.
Clouds yielded to her hair’s lustrous shine and flow.
Snow ceded to the silky whiteness of her skin’s glow.
Kiều, the eldest, was especially witty and charming.
Her talents and beauty even surpassed her sister.
Her eyes: soul-deep liquid pools of autumn lake water.
Her eyebrows: silhouettes of mount’n crests in spring.
Flowers envied her captivating looks.
Willows grieved at her youthful freshness.
One smile could rock a fortress and two a nation.
Other girls might have comparable talents,
but none could compare to her beauty’s perfection.
Following this, translation by Phan Huy MPH is presented for comparison:
His first births were two magnificent daughters,
Of them Thúy Kiều elder and Thúy Vân younger.
Both with apricot bodies and snow spirits,
Each had their unique style and perfect beauty.
Vân looked gentle with a decent elegance,
Her face a full moon, her eyebrows two long arcs;
Her smile a flower and her voice sounds of jade,
Clouds yielded her hair and snow ceded her skin.
Kiều was even more attractive and charming,
Surpassing her sister in talent and beauty.
Eyes pure like fall lake, brows bold like spring hill,
Flowers grudged her fresh and willows craved her green.
Her glances would make a king bequeath his throne,
Her talent, like her beauty, was second to none.
Comments on Phan Huy MPH’s Translation for lines 15–28:
“Apricot bodies” renders mai cốt cách too literally and coarsely. While cốt cách refers to one’s physical form, it connotes graceful bearing or a slender frame — not the blunt physicality implied by “bodies.”
“Decent elegance” understates the phrase trang trọng khác vời, which suggests an extraordinary, dignified beauty. “Decent” sounds far too modest and fails to capture the elevated tone.
“Fall lake” is slightly off in tone. “Autumn lake” would preserve both the poetic rhythm and the seasonal imagery of làn thu thủy.
“Craved her green” (for liễu hờn kém xanh) sounds awkward and unclear. The line expresses the envy of nature — willows resenting her freshness — not “craving.”
“King bequeath his throne” misrepresents the idiom “nghiêng nước nghiêng thành”. The phrase describes beauty so powerful it topples kingdoms — not voluntary abdication.
“Her talent, like her beauty, was second to none” misinterprets “Sắc đành đòi một, tài đành họa hai”. In the original, her beauty stands unmatched (one of a kind), while her talents are still excellent — perhaps one or two rivals. The nuance of measured praise is lost.
One of the most poignant chapters in The Tale of Kiều is when Kiều asks her sister, Thúy Vân, to take her place in fulfilling her vow to Kim Trọng. This moment brims with deep emotion and heart-wrenching sincerity. Yet, some translations fail to capture the full depth and nuance of Kiều’s sacrifice, rendering the lines flat or overly factual, missing the powerful emotional resonance at the core of the scene. In the following, we examine select lines where the original’s intensity is lost and offer a more faithful, evocative rendition.
Original (lines 745–756):
Hồn còn mang nặng lời thề (745)
Nát thân bồ liễu, đền nghì trúc mai
Dạ đài cách mặt khuất lời
Rẩy xin chén nước cho người thác oan.
Bây giờ trâm gẫy bình tan
Kể làm sao xiết muôn vàn ái ân. (750)
Trăm nghìn gửi lại tình quân
Tơ duyên ngắn ngủi có ngần ấy thôi.
Phận sao phận bạc như vôi
Đã đành nước chẩy hoa trôi lỡ làng.
Ôi Kim lang! Hỡi Kim lang! (755)
Thôi thôi thiếp đã phụ chàng từ đây!
Huỳnh Sanh Thông’s translation of lines 745–756:
My soul, still haunted by the oath, will try
to keep my pledge though I’ll have turned to naught.
The world of night will hide my face, my voice —
yet, please shed tears for someone wronged by fate.
Ah, now the pin has snapped, the vase has crashed:*
past all expression, how I cherish him!
Through you I’ll send my humblest bows to him:
the tie of love between us is cut short
Why have I drawn a lot as gray as dirt?*
The flower’s doomed to drift along the stream.
O Kim, my dearest Kim! This is the end:
as of today I’ll have betrayed your trust”
Comments on Huỳnh Sanh Thông’s translation:
The phrase “haunted by the oath” suggests reluctance or being burdened by a ghostly presence, which doesn’t reflect Kiều’s solemn and heartfelt commitment. The original conveys a steadfast soul holding to a sacred vow, not one troubled or unwilling.
“Turned to naught” is vague and weak compared to the original’s deep sense of enduring spirit beyond death.
The line “past all expression, how I cherish him” sounds awkward and almost clinical. The original “kể làm sao xiết muôn vàn ái ân” powerfully conveys that words utterly fail to express the immense love — a profound emotional resonance missing here.
“Through you I’ll send my humblest bows to him, the tie of love between us is cut short” read as a factual report, lacking the heart-wrenching poignancy of “trăm nghìn gửi lại tình quân / tơ duyên ngắn ngủi có ngần ấy thôi.” This conveys both the overwhelming longing and the heartbreaking shortness of their love, which HST’s translation doesn’t quite capture.
For comparison, here is my translation, which aims to faithfully capture both the meaning and emotional intensity of the original.
Vuong Thanh’s translation of lines 745–756:
“My soul will keep holding on to the oath.
Even after death, I will try to repay him my debt of love.
In the dark underworld, I cannot be seen or heard.
Please sprinkle a cup of water for an ill-fated soul.
Now the brooch broken, the vase shattered.
Words cannot express just how much I love him.
Please convey him, the lord of my heart,
my thousand bows of regrets
that our times together, so few and so short, is only thus much.
O Why! Why is my fate brown as dirt!
Like a flower doomed to drift along the stream.
O Kim! O My dearest Kim!
This is the end! From this time onwards,
I’ll have betrayed your trust!”
Phan Huy MPH’s Translation of lines 745–756:
“My soul’s still heavily weighed down by the oath,
“I’ll risk everything for the sake of my love.
“Once I am in the Hades, wordless and absent,
“Please sprinkle sacred water for my doomed soul.
“Now the brooch’s been shattered and the vase broken,
“Still my love for him stays beyond expressions!
“Please convey him my thousand bows of regrets,
“That our love’s been by now thus interrupted.
“Why is my unfortunate fate white as lime?
“Subject to rough water like a dead flower.
“Oh Kim my dearest one! Oh Kim my lover!
“It is from now on that I will betray you!”
Phan Huy MPH’s translation renders the scene with clear intent but falls short of capturing both the emotional nuance and the poetic depth of Nguyễn Du’s original. His version tends toward literal or near-literal choices that miss the resonance of key phrases. For instance, “I’ll risk everything for the sake of my love” misrepresents “Nát thân bồ liễu, đền nghì trúc mai,” which conveys a posthumous desire to repay a moral and romantic debt, not a moment of present sacrifice. The phrase “white as lime” (from “phận sao phận bạc như vôi”) is a literal rendering, but fails to communicate the intended metaphor of a bleak or ill-fated destiny, better conveyed as gray as dust or dull as clay. Similarly, translating “hoa trôi lỡ làng” as “a dead flower” misses the tragic imagery of a living blossom adrift — beautiful, but lost in the stream of fate. His omission of “tình quân” — a deeply affectionate phrase meaning “lord of my heart” — further weakens the intimacy and gravity of Kiều’s farewell.
Conclusion:
Translating Truyện Kiều presents immense challenges due to its intricate language, layered meanings, and emotional depth. A rigid adherence to fixed syllable counts or an insistence on end-rhyme couplets in English inevitably sacrifices fidelity to Nguyễn Du’s original. Many existing translations that employ strict rhyme schemes may sound pleasing but often rely on filler words, imprecise vocabulary, and lengthened phrasing, diluting the poem’s power and nuance.
For a work as complex and rich as Kiều, the most faithful approach is to embrace lyrical free verse in translation. This method allows rhyme and rhythm to arise naturally rather than forcing them, ensuring that meaning and emotional resonance remain paramount. Above all, a translator must honor both the author’s precise word choices and the original’s meditative, poignant literary tone.
Only by prioritizing these principles can we begin to capture the spirit and beauty of Truyện Kiều in English, doing justice to one of the greatest masterpieces of world literature.
Vuong Thanh
Bilingual Lyrical Poet–Songwriter–Translator
[Music & Poetry on YouTube](www.youtube.com/@thanhvuong6356)
[My homepage on Medium](https://medium.com/@vuongthanh)
