Outside the smallest gloomy rooms
towns, harbours, trees,
everything you can see
in the blurish night was washed
by the yellow moonlight in peace and silence.
Our bodies were not washed
by even the drops of moonlight.
Is the air dead and 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 rustle
in the breeze.
We were sent to remote places
where man is not a man.
We see all of time on the gray walls,
the armies of black and red ants marching and carrying food,
big bedbugs hiding around us,
then the way brown lizards in magic jeans crawl on the gray walls,
black and brown spiders spinning webs against the ceiling,
food and things packed by black dust and insects.
Who steals fresh air in these gloomy cells?
Who kills the air we breathe?
Is the air dead?
Is the air lost?
When the moonlight is spread out
over the deserted mountain ranges
we are going hungry for
peaceful, yellow moonlight,
the bosom of friends we met in life,
the freedom the satans are frightened of.
Is it going to rain in the dark gray evenings?
We always listen for barbarous curses of flies
by an ancient river where no fish are swimming.
In my bosom
there are melancholy threads running through the past
in the drizzling rains.
I’m now pacing up and down
in the gloomy cells
like tigers in the Rangoon zoo.
one day, yellow flowers facing the sun
seem to bloom there.
I am now peeking at the moonlight
on the empty ground
under the only door
locked by the greenest satans.