Who will be gone, I wonder

Without proof or witness, we became human;
Holding on to an evening,
We became tainted by its darkness.
It’s only a digital surface, but still easily stained with colors.

Because the northern wind
Blowing through the streets of Yangon
Between walls and windows
Historically feels stuffy,
People float right into heaven

• Tags: Issue 8, Kenneth Wong, Maung Sein Win, Maung Shin Saw, Moe Way, Poetry