By Tin Moe
Tears
a strand of grey hair
a decade gone
In those years
the honey wasn't sweet
mushrooms wouldn't sprout
farmlands were parched
The mist hung low
the skies were gloomy
Clouds of dust
on the cart tracks
Acacia and creepers
and thorn-spiral blossoms
But it never rained
and when it did rain,
it never poured
At the village front monastery
no bells rang
no music for the ear
no novice monks
no voices reading aloud
Only the old servant with a
shaved head
sprawled among the posts
And the earth
like fruit too shy to emerge
without fruit
in shame and sorrow
glances at me
When will the tears change and
the bells ring sweet?
Translated by Anna J Allot
From The Irrawaddy Magazine, April 2007, Vol. 15 No. 4
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