This poem was written in 1995. I feared I would never be able to return to Burma, which I consider my spiritual home, due to the continuing war. Burma has been embroiled in civil war since 1962 and continues to this day.
Mourning
My dear country
I see you dying.
Your head lies in the mud.
Beneath your soaking hair
Vipers make their nests.
Your brown hand,
Smooth as a skull
Floats on the Irrawaddy.
On my heart and soul,
Your hand is a heavy stone.
I pray for you
I cry for you
But I cannot breathe the life
Back into you.
Over the plains of Pagan
Pagodas rise
Pure white sentinels
guarding the graves of mothers,
Fathers, children and monks.
Their throats, dry as rifle shots,
Speak to me of a desert
That cannot be quenched.
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