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Come, come, follow us.
This is our custom, this is our way
This is the new year when
the padauk boasts.
Play with clear water thoroughly
And let love grow for the people.
Hurry, hurry
A crowd comes pressing from
the pagoda hill. What is it?
Thump of the pot-drum,
an articulate shawm,
Singers and dancers.
There’s a bullock, too.
A carpet on his back, perfume and bark
cream,
Padauk flowers on his horn
are brilliant with the color of gold.
How happy,
if I were to enter into its mind!
I pray with flowered words
that the Burmese who are fond of
freeing wretched creatures
Should receive an equal kindness.
In Tagu at the turning of the year
charity abounds, water soaks through,
shows are excessively spectacular,
and people of the right age make merry.
Which land has the most pagodas?
Which land is the happiest?
The Burmese keep a thought on the round
of births and enjoy themselves.
At the New Year.
A joyous month.
The old leaf falls and the new leaf thrives.
When the breeze blows,
it’s a time for memories.
When the koel calls with pleasant voice
from the high tree at water festival time
her song enters and makes
a pure white cave of my breast.
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