A letter from a jail cell: Dear Father, the River, whose stomach was cut open, has declared war on our tiny house on the bank, hasn’t she? Right in front of the house you must be looking out for someone who will help you with embankment poles to straighten the river, to fill her holes with sandbags. In the murky water, which rises like a bamboo lance, you must be gazing at the sesame plantation — laden with fruits ready for harvest. You must be thinking a fistful of rice in your mouth is about to be fingered out. Maybe you will find solace in religion, contemplating our five foes. Maybe you will think of the void a son’s labour can fill. One son, two daughters and one son; The eldest is a poet in prison, the first daughter, a school teacher, the second, a graduate in the kitchen, the youngest, a student. Your poet son, is he even employable as the dah you use to clear weed? Forgive nothing, Father. Nothing! “Son, Pho Chan, why do I hear noises behind you?”, you asked on the phone. “I am at the bus stop to post a manuscript to a journal,” I lied. From your liar son in the dock to thugs who sweeten you with the tips of their tongues, “To our benefactor peasants … ”, because they want to have you from behind, hate them all, Father. Hate them all. A thief is unarmed. A thug is armed to the teeth. If thieves are ungovernable, if thugs are ungovernable, what’s the point of government? Whatever happens to the jungles whatever happens to the mountains whatever happens to the rivers they don’t care. They love the country just the way they love to grate a coconut, from inside out, for coconut milk. Plinth by plinth, to make their throne taller, they will point their guns at the urna on the Lord Buddha’s forehead. Their class is that crass. To cuss at that class if your religion forbids you allow me to lose that religion. I will turn the air blue on your behalf. Maybe you don’t know yet. your son was set up for demanding the so-called police not to harm ordinary citizens. Someday your son, who is not a thief nor a thug will become employable, good as your dah that clears weed. For now, Father, keep gazing at the plantation you’d ploughed with your naked shoulders. Keep singing the anthem of The Peasant Union. Yours ever, K Za Win Cell 1, Section 10 Thayawaddy Prison..... "Poet name – K Za Win (1982–2021) Birth name – Chan Thar Sway K Za Win was born from a peasant family, in Letpadaung village, Sarlingyi township, Sagaing region. His father’s name is U Kyaw Swe and his mother’s name is Daw Win May. He is the eldest son with three other siblings. He started to write poems from the age of 16. In 2004, his poems were published in magazines such as Thaung Paung Htway Lar Comedy magazine with the poem titled ‘The End’, and in First Eleven Sports Journal. From 2009-2010, he continued to compose poems and political essays under different pseudonyms. He produced his own collection of poems with the title ‘Reply letter to Ramón’. In 2015, as he was about to leave for Japan as a migrant agricultural worker to build a new life with his fiancé, he was arrested in Letpadaung for supporting the democratic education movement led by the students, and was jailed in Tharyarwaddy prison. After he was released, he lived in Monywa and worked as a volunteer Myanmar language teacher. He was an active member of the West-North Plains Poet group as well as the All Burma Youth Poet Union. He never failed to meet his student union comrades who were being detained in prisons. He contributed to political mobilizations as much as he could. Since the Spring Revolution began, he has shown immense bravery by taking part in Monywa protests, and lost his life as the demonstrations faced a violent crackdown from the military on March 3rd 2021..."