To one hundred thousand loves of hate live for one hundred years, before the reason of flowers bright. I have to realize the former ceremony was to find a way of desire. You might not like that. She finds the place scattered with flowers and paintings. The love of art for the sake of living makes one a fine man. He is also an animal, a frog or an alligator. They can live in water as well as on land. Land of shrines happens to be lion’s land. The year of heaven will be so far away from hell. The trees live a long life. They fade their tears and also dance to the tune of the breeze. Where will they go, to the east or to the north?
Mine has gone already. Have they friends in the north? Wonder. I cannot afford to go. My place is here. Though the space is limited I have a long years to life. The eagle swoops down occasionally on my pond where Lilies grow and dance and die. The crows remain the innocent black. They flew with their umbrella right into the darkness of dawn. Their voice is a sing, better than a tune of a thousand pianos, though they eat the rubbish the maid throws in the morning.
One fine day, a page came with a clown. They made a good pair for a Sunday. A tall man walks in the woods with a stick. The leaves whistle with their beak, although their finger nails are empty.
My life is a song. Lyrics are coloured black. Though the music breathes with the swans. When the place dries with the voice of people, I happen to play a game, a game that no wants to play. They came flying in winter while summer was waiting. That’s the game. Love is on the shelf or in the drawer. Sometimes it trickles down the sewer. Drop by a piece. The vase is empty. Never was a leaf born out of it before. Time has changed but they are waiting, or am I waiting? I saw the king coming with a cake. The rain that swallows the cake to the forest. But I still live on the nude of the sand dunes. The waves foam with anger to the jealously of love. The face is there, with the empty smile. The sails white in the hill or the horizon.
The rose dropped dead in red. The future seems unexpected for the one who sleeps darkly. To be rich with dreams is a gift. They expect to be loned. A black with barks blueishly with a fly. They sing while I tear. Incorrectly speaking in the tunnel might be a lie. Most dog sleep them with a green. Colour sleeps with a pillow of grass. Tomatoes and coats are racing in the clouds. What if I stay away. They may think a thing different from what you whisper. If a flea flies from finland to nowhere I must frankly saturate within a limited cone. The wooden coffin stood in the quiet sleep.
Weep my dear. They pray. My mind is supposed to be muddled. If they have to change their outlook they happened to laugh. Her head is full of grey hair. My mind is not to be for anything but just to word along inch by inch, moment by moment. Think of it. They make good seals to mark black on skin for eternity. The pot is half filled with glass. The hand stretched far back to the corner of origin. The bones of a fish were left untouched for five nights. The stars britle with their limited intensity. The waning moon snores with a rhythmic etching. Night might have been equal to the seller of song, if it did not have to sleep at day time. Whoever wastes away my lines hung in the threshold of space. A place was named before a number. The vault suffers a crack after a thunderstorm. The thieves stood to find a key hole. They felt a candle being breezed. The wheel rolls on relentlessly in the mud. The water-falls gave a simple and cello tune. The death starts with a simple rhythmic beat before the fall of my lovely face. To take a sweet life keeps me neatly in space. Wonders weed with familiarity in the hall of garlands. Step by step, I tread until I saw the blues in my eyes. The ribs crack in a dark room before I encounter a face I was looking for A false teeth loosened itself from the surface that was studded with diamonds time to think thoroughly before black bells bounce beautifully. Summer sings sweetly, slowly and surely. My letter was not written but printed right or might I will have to fight. When the sun sleeps soundly, her hands hide her hair. The large wall is away seen from the red pagoda. Smoke mingled with dust in dusk. The cow gazed across the road. The road leads to a path. The steps lead to the floor of timber. My name is Bamboo. My well is deep. My love is deeper. No one can find a thing in such depth. The floor still remains. Mine will also remain. But she will not nature her whimsical looks. Admiration will not be upon my desire. To be is the only while. Definition is considered helpless when you did not have a friend of sleep. None can hope for the whale with a feature of black. Tomorrow comes in the morning. Tonight is tea and sugar. The insect flew into my left eye. Good luck must pluck. Good or bad, all or everything, I do not care. But I care for happiness that must exist for the one I bestow my love. One never gets the lines he draws. Many accidents are in the process. Incidents as well. May my make believe blossom in time for a September morn. My teacher excluded me from the parade, fearing that I might be a liability. One has to anticipate the kind of berries that will be served. The mosquitoes play a very good violin. Its the victor who creates the law. To be hummed as a tune when the national anthem played. The band is owned by a business man. His name is Blind. He loves musics. My life is full of future. But none has come as yet. Yet is a word you wait with friends. I have friends. They stay awake all nights. We had a wonderful supper. She slipped when I startled her. Misery surrounds her scratches lines are long. Length is a straight line. The lips are parted. The teeth glowed white. The voice cracked but unaudible. They picture their sons with a blossomed blue flower. Blue is a rare colour for a flower. Have a house with a happy ending. Is beginning important? Doubt existed as long as trust existed. The river even bends along a soft alluvial plain. The ducks quacks occasionally, but monotonously I hear the bleating of a calf. The fire flickered in the meadow, while the dragonflies fly so high when the summer is dying. The fields stretched from one end to another. An occasional toddy tree stood at attention, as if the king walked passed a hundred years ago. The rain smiled awhile to the anger of the sun. A foot pointed to the sky with the fear that sky might fall down. Sometimes sexy sky shines beautifully. Butterflies fluttered their black wings in unison while the sheep grazed. One morning they were veiled in a mist. The misty haze lounged over my village with pleasure. Smoke comes out of everybody’s mouth whether one is smoking or not, cigars are rare species in November.
Chagall is a good painter. Nabokov is a witch, an evil, a devil disguised as a woman. Camus is a human being, always in love with love. To judge one’s work is a sin. Sinners sleep softly in the snow. If was my profession to stare at people’s eyes without blinking. Silicon is an abundant chemical. Baboon is an extinct creature. When we climbed the mountains the gods helped us occasionally. Ups and downs of life are a necessity for existance. A person with big eyes and falling hair is a stranger to me. They are a happy lot. A short story is a happy creation but hard as a rock. The clock struck the eternity of time. The road leads to an arcade. The lake flats itself on green water. Is it sweet or is it wrong, is not my question. They always ask. My answers are quick. She should have been a dear heart. But the quartet is already playing the familiar tune. The valley helps to take the sound to a distant road that is lined with evergreen trees. The bulbs that once were onioned in the lamppost with were smached. The mob is its creator, I want to be a good creator, but not a smasher. A line in one’s face means one’s age. The deer can run fast. The forest is a smoker. The receiption for the mayor has to be prepared in advance. The reclining Buddha reposed in white marble. Mandalay is often sailed by the people who spit on its soil. The moat is Rupert of henzeau. There is a brick laid by the king. Kings keep their kind cloak to themselves. Pretending is a sin. She is sinner. Love is not for sinner nor for a stupid. Slowly and sharply they sing their sure songs. The princess wrote those songs. Do not throw away April. It’s useful. The ship sails graciously. In autumn the leaves gather their momentum. The crows fight against the breeze with their wings. The gaze of a lonely soul burned in his heart.
The window is expecting a viewer with two black eyes. A man with a black coat slipped through the corridors, unnoticed by a man who is gazing through the window. The vertical strips in her longyi makes her form appears more definite. Days passed without any suitable flame. He follows with an unusual gait. A knock on the plywood door hounds like a thunder. Started faces diverted their attention to the corner. Expectation was in another direction. I myself resisted the stare of the stranger with an ear ring. Brass I suppose. May be I am wrong in this aspect, but sure thing is she happens to have an acquaintance in the room.
The room is full of dirty drawing papers scattered on the roughly finished concrete floor. I am finished. When you are in good company you do forget the things that worries you day by day. Nights passed and days passed, but waiting is the mere result. To take love free of care is like selling lottery tickets. Water flows, smoke flows and eatables flow also, but the unique thing in life is life itself. Mine is static as a design made by a certified architect. Lets wait for the darkness to down. We will not go until then. Am I the mirror or you? To refuse is a crime. Don’t cry as yet cry later. Wait! how long is the usual question people would ask. Do you ask? I forbid. Just relax to the point of exhaustion. Age makes one choose only the thing one need or useful for oneself. The idea behind. The whole affair is to let the time pass. My dear how can he stay without passing. It will glide at its own rate. One second per second. What’s the Time. Seven. Lucky. Its for you again. Where are my potato chips? They refuse to serve. I was demanding them to renew their refusal. Night was still young. The tide was rising with time-all this time. The telephone rang and my name was announced. I cleared my way through the crowd. Husky voice enquired with an air of confidence whether my company allowed. Themselves to be dragged into an illegal activities. No, was my only answer. What was his name? I don’t know. My name was Kay. I have no certificate. But I have my own face. Look! Please send me some flowers if you have anything in your mind concerning about me.
Kafka has a friend named K. Way back in China they have an exotic age. Houses have stilts, and every family owns boats. Lets a slow boat to China. I am in love. Time and age as been a factor. They do not mix. They are double must see myself in K‘s mirror. I found my face in double. One from and one front the side-left or right doesn’t matter. Luck is like that. Now it’s too late. I must start writing a book.
This Koob is for a person aged twenty one.
(အႏုပညာ … စာ – ခင္ေမာင္ရင္။ The Key – ဇန္န၀ါရီ၊ ၂၀၁၀။)