Burma Current atmospher

I have tried to follow superficial development in the Burma political scene, but I cannot help feeling that they are unreal, and the backbone in Burma oppress me. The background is one of continual repression of every kind of freedom, of enormous suffering and frustration, of distortion of goodwill, and encouragement of many evil tendencies. Large numbers lie in prison and spend their young lives, year after year, eating their hearts out. Their families and friends and connections and thousands of others grow bitter and a nauseating sense of humiliation and powerlessness before brute strength takes possessions of them. So I feel it, what is going on in Burma. In this moment I would like to share about their feeling. That’s why I mix the different verse poet in one poem. I feel sorry could not mention poet writer name. I am very difficult to think title of following poem. Reader should give the title of poem.


Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.

Flocks of birds have flown high and away;
A solitary drift of cloud, too, has gone, wandering on.
And I sit alone with Ching-ting Peak, towering beyond.
We never grow tired of each other, the mountain and I .

This is the way the world ends,
Not with a bang, but a whimper.

When all its work is done, the lie shall rot;
The truth is great and shall prevail,
When none cares whether it prevails or not.

For from one cause of fear I am most free,
It is impossible to ravish me,
I am so willing.

Wandering between two worlds, one dead,
The other powerless to be born,
With nowhere yet to rest his head.

The time is out of joint. O curse spite!
That ever I was born to set it right.

To see a world in a Grain of Sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
They praise the firm restraint with which you write.
I’m with you there, of course.
You use the snaffle and the curb all right,
But where’s the bloody horse?

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages on his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.

Through this dread shape the suffering ages look.
Time’s tragedy is in that aching stoop,
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned and disinherited,
Cries protest to the powers that made the world,
A protest that is also prophecy.

Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.
Why do sinners’ ways prosper? And why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?
Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,
How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost
Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust
Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,
Sir, life upon thy cause…..

When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Dare he laugh his work to see?
Dare he who made the lamb make thee?

Already how am I so far
Out of that minute? Must I go
Still like the thistle ball, no bar,
Onward wherever light winds blow,
Fixed by no friendly star?

And I yearn to lay my head
Where the grass is cool and sweet.
Mother, all the dreams are fled
From the tired child at thy feet.

Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?

(P.J Nyan Thit)
P.J means poetry jockey

The time has come for the people of Burma to choose between a revolutionary outlook, which involved radical changes in our political and social structure, and a reformist objective and method.