Poetry

Moe Way, Maung Shin Saw, Maung Sein Win

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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

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