From time to time, you must grope for your own roots 

Mae Yawy
Translated by Ko Ko Thett

To grope for your own roots, from time to time

you must travel from the midland to the archipelago in the deep south. 

Settle up the entry fee at each city gate. 

Drive on the right lane. 

Sometimes you will run over a dead dog.

Everyone in the vehicle, please buckle up.

Turning signals must signal only the correct turns.

I grope for my own roots, & find  

the road under construction, lined with pebbles.

There’re roots right inside the ravine  

right in the middle of a road winding up a mountain. 

The sea smells like a newborn’s milk puke —

I google to see if a storm is in the offing.

Some senile roads have been blockaded, even at their age.

Traffic jams get older & older too. 

Rubber trees in the plantation are lined up in military precision  

light from the other side shines through them.

Roads tend to go back to what they remember.    

Grandma has grown shorter. She no longer recognizes

her favorite grandchild.

The firmness of her roots transcends time. Today her 

grandchildren & great grandchildren continue to pay the road tolls. 

My three-year old nephew knows two words, trees & sky —

but nothing else.

As they always do in province towns

all the trees are turned into topiary,

their branches, sprouts & buds, pruned into 

edgelessness. 

Don’t you whimper a single word. 

Every place dances to its own zat tune.

What’s in vogue right now are human rights,

voting, & Mother Suu.

Some nights, 

my dear audience who have come all the way just to hear my dharma sermon,

feeling up my own roots 

is like u-turning into your embrace.