Daung Nwe Swe - Collection of Poems

A poem written by the hand of death

Good luck

Armed with weapons, with a pen of wisdom

Like a mountain of clouds, my Lanka

The lotus pond is a beautiful place.

For the Lord of Death

Bone hands, bones, and

In a daze, I wrote it down.

If Lanka is a paradise, Sukha is a paradise.

At the time of death, the sound is heard.

The world is crying non-stop..

From " The Blind Poems of the World"

 

Awake and asleep.

Love's dream

The poison cup, when the sun rises

Perfume, maybe even

My melody, my poetry, my harp

I can't wake up, I'm falling asleep.

It became a curse on the world.

To break the curse

With pretentious dominance, with anger

Power, whatever.

Sweet melody, my love.

The spirit of love cannot be instilled.

My finger

Red blood, warm liver

Wash yourself in the spring water.

Don't move, don't move, don't move, don't move.

Stone-like, peaceful.

From the surface

Life is a stage, a beauty too

Wrong view, cliffhanger

They are ignorant and ignorant.

The world's cries, the noise

As a laugh, the stubborn years change

The story is broken..

Even hell, if you think of it as Nibbana,

I don't wake up, I fall asleep.

Curse of anger, my poem

May you sleep soundly..

Shumawa Ruikwon Magazine, November 1963

 

Anonymous poems

The pen is also old.

The man is old too.

Please forgive him.

The old man is hunched over.

A stick is a stick.

Betrayal of poetry

He does not reach Nibbana.

The old man smiled.

Use tactics.

The pearl necklace that cannot be defeated

Don't compete and lose.

No life, no poetry.

Singing by day, crying by night.

Blood is the ink pot, bone is the pen

Cloudy sky, night bird shelter

The thought of the harp, the spider web

Handwritten storm, wild poetry

When asked to read, it was beautiful.

The butterfly screamed in terror.

Oh... you

The golden-breasted bee, a scary one.

Where is it, Liver Lanka?

Butterfly, flower, star, soul connection

Isn't that right? What is poetry?

A teardrop, a piece of paper

Hard-hearted, heretical

Horrifying, your poem

I don't read, you idiot.

Poet, then

With a vacuum, there is no life.

Abhidhamma, corrupt

Lanka Tin, next to him

Without words, with an old face

Stepping forward, parting ways.

To the point of being heartbroken, to the point of being heartbroken

A storm of laughter erupted.

From "Poems of the Morning Glory"