An Arakanese poem of the 16th century
Translated By:Maurice Collis.
Wagyut is in ,the month of festivals,
The time of pleasures and gladness in the country.
Some make umbrellas,wrop up rice in jack-leaces,
All these they offer to pagogas and images:
Some observe also the Fine and the Eight Precepts,
Doing mush charity as befits a Buddhist:
Others betake themselves beyond the city.
And there together swill down pots of drink
Till all the drunk and some abuse each other,
Some fight among themselves and some are sick:
And other make cooked rice into pagodas,
Stand in aring and sing old songs in chorus,
Clapping the time with bamboos and with hands.
So they keep festival throughout the country,
And where in noise,confusion and music
Procession pass to the pagoda -hill.
Such was the end of lent.The mist still hangs
A half seen wrapping ,till the north winds blow
From the unmelting snows of Himavata.
Love, Love,had you known all my love for you,
Wouid you have stayed from me so long a while?
Come back-I beg you on my kneed-Come back!
Me through the blankets.Will you never come!
I hope no longer without hopeexist,
A wretched woman,hardly touching food.
Taking no drink,in mind and body ill,
Utterly miserable,like one hafdead.