Thursday, 9 October 2008

An Arakanese Poem of the 16th century (7)

Poem By:Okker Pyun.

The last of the rain drops feebled aways:
Tawthalin's ripening glow spreads throough the land;
On every hillside patch of rice men laugh:
From every hilltop garden they scare birds:
Watching the crops go yellow ,they are cheered.
The farmer's house is gay with talk and friends:
Birds song and bee-drone swell the hum of gladness:
filled with all sounds the forest trembles with life,
And he that walks in it , feel no fatigue.
Ah, Love, all the-thoughts, all the old longings
Of so many minths rise and assail me now;
It is in the time of Tawthalin we two
Could lie down side by in this bed of mine,
I'd have you as close by me as the gem
That rests upon my throat; not the Abodes
Of Tavatimsa could yield me more bliss,
For we'd be indivisible and one.

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