Poetry / Uncategorized

Yangon Rain

By Mandy Moe Pwint Tu


yangon rain bears down
upon the rough-hewn streets
muddied and upholstered
in the sun-drenched air.

the ground fumes,
and the workers work.
umbrellas opening,
this is natural,
our lives, here,
dodging
the wake
of the mud,
here in the dirt
where we make
our home.

yangon rain falls,
monsoon rivers rise.
here, in the paint
peeling from the walls,
the floors murky
with rising water,
bells ringing
in desperation,
here, in the chaos,
we make
our home.

the sky heaves,
pitter patter breaks
into clatter, into clamour.
blood flows in the streets,
blood makes
the flowers grow.
you cannot say
we do not toil,
we do not tire.
we shed here,
in the dust
here we make
our home.

yangon rain falls
and we
we forget.

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