the story

If i was young
and tell them my story
that my father was killed in a riot
and my mother was thrown into fire
they would have given me a hug or two

If i was old
and waiting for my time to die
and tell them my story
that i had stood against the government
and exiled to Myanmar for ten years
they would say; “my eyes already tell the story.”

with my fist raising against the sky
i am just losing myself inside my story
i will be swallowed at the end
without a trace
Many me, again, will come
to be swallowed
to be sunken
to be drunken
to be numb
to be dumb

O! a story will be left unwritten
until the human fades

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