​WEEK7

Every time I listen to her chest
galloping horseshoes, I heard.
all this path countryside 
Gets devoured by flames,
This autumn and snows in mask.
Every morning those bullets transform themselves into printed letters.


In this field of wild grasses, I killed all the members of their relatives.
History is just a floating feather here
Her breasts get wet with my tears, your beloved nation. 


National Anthem 3
Aung Khin Myaint
Translated from Burmese

 2016

wave of the east coast