Blues From a Bull
Like the voom! of a volcano
Molten rocks spew
Lava gushes and flows
Each time the cape floats
He explodes . . .
At every glance
The wild reds bloom.
This, for him, is
Not a thriller, not an entertainment
Not a gamble, nor a crowning escapade
Nor an artistic heirloom of a tradition . . .
For him
This is
Retribution
Revenge
The warzone, the battleground, a life for a life.
He has
No anesthetic gun
No Fabian and Machiavellian tactics
No chaining and pertaining techniques
No forbidding thick walls of a hoosegow
No heavy metal shackles
No VIP corner, No sniper at the ready
No parade music, No crispy-wispy Champaign nights!
He has
Nothing
No . . . thing . . . at . . . all . . . but
his agility as his guardian angel.
His muscles are his vow.
At the tip of his nose
His will to escape gusts like a tornado.
Success or defeat, for him
Exiting through the door of death is always possible . . .
Wild reds in bloom
On his back
On his mind
On his life.
Once and for all,
Today, all the infiltrators
Will be shaken off
Onto this green ring.
Watch out!
His virtue of uprightness is
At the tip of his horns.
by Eaindra
from Eaindra: As if It Were for a Poem
publisher: The Eras, Rangoon/Yangon , 2012
translation: ko ko thett
Poetry International, 2013