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WAY, Moe


Rangoon


I hear the bells and, all is well.

It’s 1 AM or 2 AM. I can’t sleep.

In Rangoon, whenever an old house is

razed, I walk into one street, and

yet another.

How curvy, and convoluted!

I still hear the bells, and all is well.

Everything will be renewed someday, probably.

How will the dim lampposts,

the fragrant dreams beneath the concrete sidewalks,

and our hearts be reinvented?

Just like the same news stories

reiterated in our different dailies,

lovers, o… love, I repeat.

Rangoon scuffles out of my hands

which way will you flow like a river?

Senile road signs and heaps of

broken bricks flash in the background.

Our past and our shadows have been sensational news.

On the glass walls of the banks and the malls,

I see the fleeting reflections of

Pazuntaung evenings, 42nd street, Myaynigone night bazaar …

in the beams of the passing cars.

Yes, I can’t sleep. And, Rangoon can’t sleep.

When the whole city is asleep

I spray-paint the walls of the new buildings.

I am back in Rangoon.

Rangoon is just like me.