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My stories

The Nuns of Shwedagon

The Nuns of Shwedagon A clipping: from Shwedagon pagoda young Buddhist nuns file past the camera out into the heat and chaos of Rangoon. Their robes are palest coral and deep amber;

Silence

Silence In this clattering city, where the head swirls in the constant surf of sound – raised voices, the hollow rattle of heels on escalators, car-horns clamouring in demented chorus -

From Po Wah Yuen

From Po Wah Yuen On the other side of the world, on the other side of the day my black-haired love is sleeping. In a city without a name, in a house without a number

In the dark on the end of the line

In the dark on the end of the line my woman is softly sobbing, like a child lost alone in darkness, wounded and comfortless. I have cut her with my casual anger and cannot withdraw the words,
Cherry

Evening Ferry

Evening Ferry I watch her board, my black-haired girl, leaving me once more for the family that is not hers, but swallows her youth in their service. When she leaves me

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