Going to Napyidaw

Going to Napyidaw

 

Weary of this road, its rocks and dust
shakened and loosened under past footsteps, 
the smell of dry leaves burn like cotton mouth
in the hot sun over the plains of Dhamazeddi,
where the river rules all,
flowing wet dirt and turbulent in spaces,
carrying history and its deposits along with
seekers caught gazing into its whirlpools
lost forever like wishes down a well.
Saffron crows caw over Shwe Dagon, 
the legend says they were monks in another life. 
What were you in your other lives? 
This is what it’s like in these days of slow death,
rice is harvested for the rich and the dead,
each slim grain dried with a final breath
and a boney hand on an old skinny arm 
short of a grasp of a life saving grain;
entire families were sent off their land for profit farmers.
Who then, saw into the wombs of the generals wives?
The ones in uniforms and now suits who colonize us,
their next lives will be stillborn and sure as dead 
and useless like fat goldfish swimming in cement ponds;
their mansions are with plates full of food yet the eat us instead.

Ei Kyaw Zwe

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