My morning prayers on the Irrawaddy


Painting the skies in shades of pink, vermillion, orange and red,

Our powerful Master was regaining strength, igniting like a ball of fire,

Above my darkened mountains, on our distant border with Tibet,

It seemed as if the entire Irrawaddy,

Its oak and pine filled rainforests,

Each and every creature loathing within it,

And every Burmese inhabitant on it,

Bowed down,

Darkened themselves with gratitude,

With pleasure,

For regularly lightning up weakening spirits of this majestic river,

For strengthening its banks to survive attacks from the clandestine monster of erosion,

Eating away Irrawaddy, eating away banks of my sacred Land of the Golden Pagoda,

With folded hands and closed eyes,

I prayed to my Golden master,

I hope one day,

This fisherman from Mandalay,

Can beg this world to take notice,

If not help us, help my land,

At least help me awaken my sleeping baby-kissers…



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