Drifted in by tidal waves
with hugs of attachment
on the shore of the North Sea
a poem from Burma washed up.
No sun, no moon, can be seen 
on the Norwegian beach.
Wearing the robe of mist
going up the Scandinavian mountain
with a shaken, broken voice
singing a home-sick song.

I will surely arrive at some point.

Though our homeland is under darkness
it will be short-lived.
Soon in the sky
dull darkness will clear, 
a brightly coloured dawn
will arrive. 
A journey of ten years
as short as a snap of the fingers.

A poem
will pack treasure 
enter the village gate 
greet 'hello' 
a chance to hug the public. 

But now . . . atop a snow-covered mountain 
while hoping for the light 
singing homesick songs
lighting up a lantern of hope,
to keep singing of what I miss.