Outside the smallest gloomy rooms
towns, harbours, trees,
everything you can see,
and the blurish night are being washed
by the yellow moonlight in peace and silence.
Our bodies are not washed
by the evne drops of the moonlight.
Is the air dead or gone?
We who are in cells know
about losing moonlight and fresh air
We can’t find moonlight in our cells.
We can’t hear the sound of the leaves on the trees rustling
in the breeze.
We were sent into remote places
where man is not a man.
We see all the time gray walls,
the armies of black and red ants marching and carrying food,
big bedbugs hiding around us,
then the ways brown lizards in magic jeans crawling on gray walls,
black, brown spiders spinning webs against the ceiling,
food and things packed by black dust insects.
Who steals fresh air in this cell?
Who kills the air we breath?
Is the air dead?
Is the air lost?
When the moonlight is spread out
over the deserted mountian ranges
we are going hungry for
peaceful, yellow moonlight,
the bosom of friends we met in life,
but then – freedom the satans are frightened of.
Is it going to rian in dark gray evenings?
We always listen for barbarous curses of flies
by an ancient river where there are no fish swimming.
In my bosom
there are melencholy threads running through the past
in drizzling rains.
I’m now pacing up and down
in the gloomy cells
like tigers in the Rangoon zoo
one day, yellow flowers facing agaist the sun
seem to bloom here.
I am now peeking at the moonlight
on the empty ground
under the only door
locked by the greenest satans.
Nei Htek Naing