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My Old Teacher,

By railroad to “Myitkyina”, stands your high school,
In “Namma” where I’d been a native activist,
To where soldiers of junta led me,
While blaming me a destroyer and pessimist.

When I had to enter my old classroom,
That I finished and left decades ago,
Recalling my memory to your words,
But undone ’cause I got a heavy blow.

You reproved to wipe out my naughty deeds,
And I deleted wrongs from my lists,
While you were pleased making me a doctor,
They repeated using, on me, a chain of fists.

Returns to your effort spread to all people,
Through my service for a healthy climate,
You praised me but they did never,
And cursed me for curing a wounded (student) private.

’Cause he had the spirit of Students’ Army,
Devoted to regain our stolen rights,
I’ll support “Fighter Peacock” forever,
But catchers jeered me for not making an open fight.

My Old Teacher,

Once you’d made admonition alike, in that room,
But, from them, you did quite differ,
They, disciples of SLORC, used the same room,
And did me punishing that’s quite bitter.

(True biography)
Wunthar Tun
May 10, 2004

By this poem, I would like to record life-staked activities of comrades already passed away or still in action of ABSDF(Northern Bureau)+HQ and all sympathizers of its locality.


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