when blue jeans get torn

have you ever found
a youth’s inconsequentiality
when his jeans ran out?
deep down to the dreams of the youth
are the tight blue jeans,
to shout at the clouds,
to stab the air with the fists,
to drag the dream from the nightworld and make love to it,
in the days moving ahead.

in the world of jeans there are youths.
blue jeans packing up the voices of the youths from the teashops,
the poems from the tea-cups,
the come-what-way tattoos seeping into the songs of the teashop.
for a youth,
at least a pair of jeans is needed.
to run into the world,
the jeans are sold.
the youth buy and wear the jeans.
into the dream-paths they aim for
they run.
in every footstep
they leave many firm decisions tightened and tightened.
could you communicate
a youth’s inferior heartbeat
when he has no jeans.

when there were no jeans,
for every road they took
they kept the jaw bones secretly,
they packed the star-like irises into the nightworld,
they put and coiled the vine-like fingers in the heart.
when there were no jeans,
days got inured to the vicissitudes of life like the engine with no oil.
like the mountains
they gazed at the vapour travelling
when there were no jeans.

The clothes line knows
the youth’s mind, who is running out of the jeans.
so does the house wall.
when going along the rows of fair-stalls,
they acted themselves as the tiger toys,
looked slyly at the toy daggers.
in the chest of a youth whose jeans are running out
are the layers and layers of riddles.

a youth whose jeans are running out
is gazing at the big lion before the Buddha image,
is looking into the heroes of the past.
whenever hearing an airplane flies in the sky,
the knife fevered by the grief and
great passion to tear the sky up on sunny days,
with the passion for a cloth,
could look at the sky.

Kyaw Nyo Thway
Translated from the Burmese by Thein Aung