Dagon Taya (6)

This post covers page six of Dagon Taya's short story "A fragrant hazy night" (မွှေးမြရီဝေသောညတစ်ည).  The translation begins from the first sentence at the top of the page (for which the starting "ကျွန်" of "ကျွန်တော်၏" is printed at the end of page five.  The translation continues to the last sentence on the page, which continues onto page seven with "တက်ကြွလာ၏။".

Vocabulary:

နှင် ။ to drive out, drive away, expel, banish
မှီခို ။ to depend on someone
မာကျော ။ rigid, hard, tough, stern, harsh
ကြမ်းတမ်း ။ to be violent, harsh
အထည် ။ matter
အဖု ။ a boil, bump
အထစ် ။ notch
အကြော ။ vein
အမြစ် ။     root
ပြွမ်း ။ (of many and varied things) to be all together
တွယ် ။ to stick to; be attached to; cling
ခက် ။ to make a network, weave, entwine
ကုန်ကြမ်း ။ raw material
ယဉ် ။ tame, cultured; gentle; charming; graceful
ကွပ်ကဲ ။ to manage; supervise; administer.
ထိန်းကျောင်း ။ to herd (sheep etc.)
ပျော့ပျောင်း ။ pliant; flexible; supple; gentle
နုနယ် ။ youthful, delicate
စိမ် ။ to be steep, soak, immerse in liquid
ကောက်ကြောင်း ။ the outline of a drawing
အသာအယာ ။ gently, politely, willingly
ရေး ။ only, just
သာ ။ only, just
ရွက်လွှင့် ။ to set sail
မျော ။ to drift, float, go with the tide
နယ် ။ to mix
အရိုင်းတုံး ။ uncut/unpolished stones
ကိုက်ညီ ။ agree
ကြွ ။ to rise up
ခြယ် ။ to paint; adorn, decorate
တွန့်ဆုတ် ။ to shrink from/recoil something due to fear or revulsion
အတုံး ။ a block, lump, chunk
ထစ် ။ stammer, stutter
မော့ ။ to tilt up, rise


Translation:

And does not my life, like just the aura of the moon, come to change colour as well?  Am I not shining more now?

I return to drive away my pen.  Only the starting chapter of the “Monsoon” story was finished.  Even just that chapter took a long time to write.  On each occasion, copying from English stories, my pen went easily and smoothly.  However, because I copied from movie plots, there was no difficulty.  As for now, because he was not dependent on anyone, he could extract [stories] from his heart.  As for the matters in his heart, they were wild matters.  With boils, marks, veins and roots all hit, stuck and beautifully woven together.  Those raw materials were able to be managed and herded together so as to be tamed.  The harsh raw materials had to be made gentle and delicate.  And each time while setting down again a paper seeped in oil, as much as it was only just gently copying down as though giving the outline of a drawing, I had to extract the labour.  If it was the start of writing, while setting sail to bring about imagination, I would drift.  As for now, I would have to completely use [my] labour.  I had to knead the hard uncut stone in my hand.  I had to decorate so that the experiences of life would rise up with words that were agreeable to him.  My pen would recoil in revulsion.  And the raw materials in my mind were still in the form of rocks.  My forehead became moist with sweat.  My pen stuttered.

And the colour around the moon was such a golden green.

As I remembered, I grabbed a bottle of alcohol that was placed on a shelf next to the table.  Without looking for a glass I tipped up [the bottle].  My chest went hot.  After that it got warmer and warmer.  My heart beat with a ‘dait-dait’ sound.  My heart became increasingly active.