Hon Yaing Ho. (18th Century)
Twice from the dead fields have the wild geese flown.
Twice from the hills the withered leaves have blown.
And twice ten thousand tears I shed for you.
Cold is the frost that on the forest lies,
And cold the wind which through the courtyard cries,
But colder far the home bereft of you.
The little lad whose eyes are like your own,
Whose voice seems but an echo of your tone,
How strange—he knows not what he lost with you!
This is your house—gay eaves and carven stone
I built for you. Now, ageing and alone,
I dwell with ghosts and know not which is you.[9]
Your grave is on the hill above the stream,
And there you rest, passing from dream to dream,
But I rest not, who only dream of you.