Mr. Jingles had never been a mouse.

Like in a story,
Poor Mr. Jingles was
Not a close friend of Mr. Ginger.
Mr. Jingles so far
Lives in a little cigarette box,
Tossing and rolling in cotton wool balls and biting toast leisurely.
Sometimes, Mr. Jingles thinks of
And gazes at those who left.
With the clock striking going and coming.
Mr. Jingles who lives in a little white room
Can smell broken biscuits and bread pieces.
He comes by leaps and bounds whenever he gets the smell.
Young Mr. Jingles
Was busy with going into and out of the rooms,
Was brought up by the one who was about to finish his life journey.
He used to play dizzily,
Jumping over from this shoulder to that one,
From that shoulder to this one.
Tossing the sewing thread,
He used to push it towards the horizon.
Once, poor Mr. Jingles fell
Under the boots of a cruel half-brain man.
Insects and flies went up into the sky
Like the smoke, vanished into the air.
Mr. Jingles with wide eyes open.
Frightening Mr. Jingles
Was left behind alone in the dark.
Frantic Mr. Jingles.
Suffered the pain from the palms of his hearer,
Mr. Jingles disappeared from the pinhole of sunlight.
No one could tell exactly to where Mr. Jingles had been.
Recalling the brightly shining electric bulbs
Exploding one after another,
Mr. Jingles thought that the green corridor was an eternity.
In 60 years,
He had eaten a cake only once.
Poor Mr. Jingles!
Looking silently at those who had said goodbye to him,
What’s sure here is
Mr. Jingles had never been a mouse.
Like in the story
Unfortunate Mr. Jingles was
Not a close friend of Mr. Ginger.

Nyi Sane
Translated from the Burmese by Thein Aung