abcdemajor.blogspot.com မွၾကဳိဆုိပါသည္။

အခ်ိန္ေပး၀င္ေရာက္ၾကည္႕ရွုမႈကုိ ေက်းဇူးတင္ပါသည္။

My Favourite Links

The sites I prefer are:
www.iteslj.org
www.myefa.org
www.english4all.com
www.blogspot.com
www.freewebs.com
www.mail.google.com

Please let me know about your favourite ones!

PLAYS

The Swineherd


THERE was once a poor Prince, who had a kingdom. His kingdom was small, but still large enough to marry upon; and he wished to marry.

His name was renowned far and wide; and there were a hundred Princesses who would have answered "Yes!" and "Thank you kindly!" if he had asked them. But he wanted to marry the Emperor's daughter.

It happened that where the Prince's father lay buried there grew a rose-tree, -- a most beautiful rose-tree, which blossomed only once in every five years, and even then bore only one flower, but that was a rose! It was so sweet that whoever breathed its scent forgot all cares and sorrows.

And further, the Prince had a nightingale, who could sing in such a manner that it seemed as though all sweet melodies dwelt in her little throat. So he put the rose and the nightingale into large silver caskets, and sent them to the Princess.

The Emperor had them brought into a large hall, where the Princess was playing at "Visiting" with the ladies of the court; and when she saw the caskets with the presents, she clapped her hands for joy.

"Oh, I do hope it is a little pussy-cat!" said she but the rose-tree with its beautiful rose came to view.

"Oh, how prettily it is made!" said ail the court ladies.

"It is more than pretty," said the Emperor; "it is charming!"

But the Princess touched it, and was almost ready to cry.

"Fie, Papa," said she, "it is not made at all, it is natural!"

"Let us see what is in the other casquet, before we get into a bad humour," said the Emperor. So the nightingale came forth, and sang so delightfully that at first no one could say anything ill-humoured of her.

"Superbe! charmant!" exclaimed the ladies; for they all used to chatter French, each one worse than her neighbour.

"How much the bird reminds me of the musical box that belonged to our blessed Empress," said an old knight. "Oh yes! these are the same tones, the same execution."

"Yes! yes!" said the Emperor, and he wept at the remembrance. "I will still hope that it is not a real bird," said the Princess. "Yes, it is a real bird," said those who had brought it. "Well, then, let it fly," said the Princess; and she refused to see the Prince.

However, he was not to be discouraged; he daubed his face over brown and black, pulled his cap over his ears, and knocked at the door.

"Good-day to my lord the Emperor!" said he. "Can I have employment at the palace?"

"Why, yes," said the Emperor, "I want someone to take care of the pigs, for we have a great many of them."

So the Prince was appointed "Imperial Swine-herd". He had a dirty little room close by the pig-sty; and there he sat the whole day, and worked. By the evening, he had made a pretty little kitchen-pot. Little bells were hung all round it; and when the pot was boiling, these bells tinkled in the most charming manner, and played the old melody:

"Ah! my dearest Augustine,
All is gone, gone, gone!"

But what was still more curious, whoever held his finger in the steam of the kitchen-pot immediately smelt all the dishes that were cooking on every hearth in the city.

Now the Princess happened to walk that way; and when she heard the tune, she stood quite still, and seemed pleased; for it was the only piece she knew, and she played it with one finger.

"Why, there is my piece!" said the Princess. "That swineherd must have been well educated! Go in and ask him the price of the instrument."

So one of the ladies ran in; but she drew on wooden slippers first.

"What will you take for the kitchen-pot?" said the lady.
"Ten kisses from the Princess," said the swineherd.

"He is an impudent fellow!" said the Princess when she heard this, and she walked on. But when she had gone a little way, the bells tinkled so prettily that she had to stop.

"Stay," said the Princess. "Ask him if he will have ten kisses from the ladies of my court."

"No, thank you!" said the swineherd, "ten kisses from the Princess, or I keep the kitchen-pot myself."

"That must not be either!" said the Princess; "but do you all stand before me that no one may see us."

So the court ladies placed themselves in front of her, and spread out their dresses -- the swineherd got ten kisses, and the Princess the kitchen-pot.

That was delightful! the pot was boiling the whole evening, and the whole of the following day. They knew perfectly well what was cooking at every fire throughout the city, from the chamberlain's to the cobbler's; the court ladies danced, and clapped their hands.

The swineherd let not a day pass without working at something. He at last constructed a rattle, which, when it was swung round, played all the waltzes and jig-tunes which have ever been heard.

"Ah, that is superbe!" said the Princess when she passed by. "I have never heard prettier compositions! Go in and ask him the price of the instrument; but mind, he shall have no more kisses!"

"He will have a hundred kisses from the Princess!'' said the lady who had been to ask.

"I think he is not in his right senses!" said the Princess, and walked on; but when she had gone a little way, she stopped again. "One must encourage art," said she. "I am the Emperor's daughter. Tell him he shall, as yesterday, have ten kisses from me, and may take the rest from the ladies of the court."

"Oh! -- but we should not like that at all!" said they.

"What are you muttering?" asked the Princess. "If I can kiss him, surely you can!" So the ladies were obliged to go to him again. "A hundred kisses from the Princess!" said he.

"Stand round!" said she; and all the ladies stood round her whilst the kissing was going on.

"What can be the reason for such a crowd close by the pig-sty?" said the Emperor, who happened just then to step out on the balcony; he rubbed his eyes and put on his spectacles. "They are the ladies of the court; I must go down and see what they are about!"

The ladies were so much engrossed with counting the kisses that they did not perceive the Emperor. He rose on his tiptoes.

"What is all this?" said he, when he saw what was going on, and he boxed the Princess's ears, just as the swineherd was taking the eighty-sixth kiss.

"March out!" said the Emperor, for he was very angry; and both Princess and swineherd were thrust out of the city.

The Princess wept, the swineherd scolded, and the rain poured down.

"Alas! unhappy creature that I am!" said the Princess. "If I had but married the handsome young Prince! ah, how unfortunate I am!"

The swineherd went behind a tree, washed the dirt from his face, threw off his old clothes, and stepped forth in his princely robes; he looked so noble that the Princess could not help bowing before him.

"I have come to despise you," said he. "You would not have an honourable Prince! you could not prize the rose and the nightingale, but you were ready to kiss the swineherd for the sake of a trumpery plaything. You are rightly served."

He then went back to his own little kingdom, and shut the door of his palace in her face. Now she might well sing:

"Ah! my dearest Augustine,
All is gone, gone, gone!"

HANS. C. ANDERSEN

POEMS

Kwesi Brew: The Mesh

We have come to the cross-roads
And I must either leave or come with you.
I lingered over the choice
But in the darkness of my doubts
You lifted the lamp of love
And I saw in your face
The road that I should take.
...............................
The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain
By Langston Hughes, The Nation, 23 June 1926
[In 1926, the Harlem Renaissance was in full flower; the poet Langston Hughes was one of its central figures. In this essay, Hughes urges black intellectuals and artists to break free of the artificial standards set for them by whites.]

One of the most promising of the young Negro poets said to me once, "I want to be a poet--not a Negro poet," meaning, I believe, "I want to write like a white poet"; meaning subconsciously, "I would like to be a white poet"; meaning behind that, "I would like to be white." And I was sorry the young man said that, for no great poet has ever been afraid of being himself. And I doubted then that, with his desire to run away spiritually from his race, this boy would ever be a great poet. But this is the mountain standing in the way of any true Negro art in America--this urge within the race toward whiteness, the desire to pour racial individuality into the mold of American standardization, and to be as little Negro and as much American as possible.

But let us look at the immediate background of this young poet. His family is of what I suppose one would call the Negro middle class: people who are by no means rich yet never uncomfortable nor hungry--smug, contented, respectable folk, members of the Baptist church. The father goes to work every morning. He is the chief steward at a large white club. The mother sometimes does fancy sewing or supervises parties for the rich families of the town. The children go to a mixed school. In the home they read white papers and magazines. And the mother often says, "Don't be like niggers" when the children are bad. A frequent phrase from the father is, "Look how well a white man does things." And so the word white comes to be unconsciously a symbol of all the virtues. It holds for the children beauty, morality, and money. The whisper of "I want to be white" runs silently through their minds. This young poet's home is, I believe, a fairly typical home of the colored middle class. One sees immediately how difficult it would be for an artist born in such a home to interest himself in interpreting the beauty of his own people. He is never taught to see that beauty. He is taught rather not to see it, or if he does, to be ashamed of it when it is not according to Caucasian patterns.

For racial culture the home of a self-styled "high-class" Negro has nothing better to offer. Instead there will be perhaps more aping of things white than in a less cultured or less wealthy home. The father is perhaps a doctor, lawyer, landowner, or politician. The mother may be a social worker, or a teacher, or she may do nothing and have a maid. Father is often dark but he has usually married the lightest woman he could find. The family attend a fashionable church where few really colored faces are to be found. And they themselves draw a color line. In the North they go to white theaters and white movies. And in the South they have at least two cars and a house "like white folks." Nordic manners, Nordic faces, Nordic hair, Nordic art (if any), and an Episcopal heaven. A very high mountain indeed for the would-be racial artist to climb in order to discover himself and his people.

But then there are the low-down folks, the so-called common element, and they are the majority--may the Lord be praised! The people who have their nip of gin on Saturday nights and are not too important to themselves or the community, or too well fed, or too learned to watch the lazy world go round. They live on Seventh Street in Washington or State Street in Chicago and they do not particularly care whether they are like white folks or anybody else. Their joy runs, bang! into ecstasy. Their religion soars to a shout. Work maybe a little today, rest a little tomorrow. Play awhile. Sing awhile. O, let's dance! These common people are not afraid of spirituals, as for a long time their more intellectual brethren were, and jazz is their child. They furnish a wealth of colorful, distinctive material for any artist because they still hold their own individuality in the face of American standardization. And perhaps these common people will give to the world its truly great Negro artist, the one who is not afraid to be himself. Whereas the better-class Negro would tell the artist what to do, the people at least let him alone when he does appear. And they are not ashamed of him--if they know he exists at all. And they accept what beauty is their own without question.

Certainly there is, for the American Negro artist who can escape the restrictions the more advanced among his own group would put upon him, a great field of unused material ready for his art. Without going outside his race, and even among the better classes with their "white" culture and conscious American manners, but still Negro enough to be different, there is sufficient material to furnish a black artist with a lifetime of creative work. And when he chooses to touch on the relations between Negroes and whites in this country with their innumerable overtones and undertones, surely, and especially for literature and the drama, there is an inexhaustible supply of themes at hand. To these the Negro artist can give his racial individuality, his heritage of rhythm and warmth, and his incongruous humor that so often, as in the Blues, becomes ironic laughter mixed with tears. But let us look again at the mountain.

A prominent Negro clubwoman in Philadelphia paid eleven dollars to hear Raquel Meller sing Andalusian popular songs. But she told me a few weeks before she would not think of going to hear "that woman." Clara Smith, a great black artist, sing Negro folk songs. And many an upper-class Negro church, even now, would not dream of employing a spiritual in its services. The drab melodies in white folks' hymnbooks are much to be preferred. "We want to worship the Lord correctly and quietly. We don't believe in 'shouting.' Let's be dull like the Nordics," they say, in effect.

The road for the serious black artist, then, who would produce a racial art is most certainly rocky and the mountain is high. Until recently he received almost no encouragement for his work from either white or colored people. The fine novels of Chestnutt go out of print with neither race noticing their passing. The quaint charm and humor of Dunbar's dialect verse brought to him, in his day, largely the same kind of encouragement one would give a sideshow freak (A colored man writing poetry! How odd!) or a clown (How amusing!).

The present vogue in things Negro, although it may do as much harm as good for the budding colored artist, has at least done this: it has brought him forcibly to the attention of his own people among whom for so long, unless the other race had noticed him beforehand, he was a prophet with little honor. I understand that Charles Gilpin acted for years in Negro theaters without any special acclaim from his own, but when Broadway gave him eight curtain calls, Negroes, too, began to beat a tin pan in his honor. I know a young colored writer, a manual worker by day, who had been writing well for the colored magazines for some years, but it was not until he recently broke into the white publications and his first book was accepted by a prominent New York publisher that the "best" Negroes in his city took the trouble to discover that he lived there. Then almost immediately they decided to give a grand dinner for him. But the society ladies were careful to whisper to his mother that perhaps she'd better not come. They were not sure she would have an evening gown.

The Negro artist works against an undertow of sharp criticism and misunderstanding from his own group and unintentional bribes from the whites. "O, be respectable, write about nice people, show how good we are," say the Negroes. "Be stereotyped, don't go too far, don't shatter our illusions about you, don't amuse us too seriously. We will pay you," say the whites. Both would have told Jean Toomer not to write "Crane." The colored people did not praise it. The white people did not buy it. Most of the colored people who did read "Cane" hated it. They are afraid of it. Although the critics gave it good reviews the public remained indifferent. Yet (excepting the work of Du Bois) "Cane" contains the finest prose written by a Negro in America. And like the singing of Robeson, it is truly racial.

But in spite of the Nordicized Negro intelligentsia and the desires of some white editors we have an honest American Negro literature already with us. Now I await the rise of the Negro theater. Our folk music, having achieved world-wide fame, offers itself to the genius of the great individual American Negro composer who is to come. And within the next decade I expect to see the work of a growing school of colored artists who paint and model the beauty of dark faces and create with new technique the expressions of their own soul-world. And the Negro dancers who will dance like flame and the singers who will continue to carry our songs to all who listen--they will be with us in even greater numbers tomorrow.

Most of my own poems are racial in theme and treatment, derived from the life I know. In many of them I try to grasp and hold some of the meanings and rhythms of jazz. I am sincere as I know how to be in these poems and yet after every reading I answer questions like these from my own people: Do you think Negroes should always write about Negroes? I wish you wouldn't read some of your poems to white folks. How do you find any thing interesting in a place like a cabaret? Why do you write about black people? You aren't black. What makes you do so many jazz poems?

But jazz to me is one of the inherent expressions of Negro life in America: the eternal tom-tom beating in the Negro soul--the tom-tom of revolt against weariness in a white world, a world of subway trains, and work, work, work; the tom-tom of joy and laughter, and pain swallowed in a smile. Yet the Philadelphia clubwoman is ashamed to say that her race created it and she does not like me to write about it. The old subconscious "white is best" runs through her mind. Years of study under white teachers, a lifetime of white books, pictures, and papers, and white manners, morals, and Puritan standards made her dislike the spirituals. And now she turns up her nose at jazz and all its manifestations--likewise almost everything else distinctly racial. She doesn't care for the Winold Reiss portraits of Negroes because they are "too Negro." She does not want a true picture of herself from anybody. She wants the artist to flatter her, to make the white world believe that all Negroes are as smug and as near white in soul as she wants to be. But, to my mind, it is the duty of the younger Negro artist, if he accepts any duties at all from outsiders, to change through the force of his art that old whispering "I want to be white," hidden in the aspirations of his people, to "Why should I want to be white? I am a Negro--and beautiful!"

So I am ashamed for the black poet who says, "I want to be a poet, not a Negro poet," as though his own racial world were not as interesting as any other world. I am ashamed, too, for the colored artist who runs from the painting of Negro faces to the painting of sunsets after the manner of the academicians because he fears the strange un-whiteness of his own features. An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid too what he might choose.

Let the blare of Negro jazz bands and the bellowing voice of Bessie Smith singing Blues penetrate the closed ears of the colored near-intellectuals until they listen and perhaps understand. Let Paul Robeson singing Water Boy, and Rudolph Fisher writing about the streets of Harlem, and Jean Toomer holding the heart of Georgia in his hands, and Aaron Douglas drawing strange black fantasies cause the smug Negro middle class to turn from their white, respectable, ordinary books and papers to catch a glimmer of their own beauty. We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, it doesn't matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly too. The tom-tom cries and the tom-tom laughs. If colored people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure doesn't matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how, and we stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves.


Hughes, (James Mercer) Langston
Born: February 1, 1902, in Joplin, Missouri
Died: May 22, 1967, in New York, New York
Literary Vocations: Poet, Novelist, Playwright, Short Story Writer, Translator, Editor
Geographic Connection to Pennsylvania: Lincoln University, Chester County

Keywords: African American Poets, Atlanta University, Columbia University, Harlem Renaissance, "Langston Hughes Place", Lincoln University, New York, University of Chicago

Abstract: Born in Joplin, Missouri on February 1, 1902, James Mercer Langston Hughes was a prolific writer who devoted most of his energies to poetry. Incorporating his personal experiences and Black America's into his writing, he developed an impressive body of poems, novels, memoirs, plays, and short stories. Such works include his autobiography I Wander as I Wander (1956), and poems The Negro Speaks of River (1921) and The Weary Blues (1926). A 1929 graduate of Lincoln University in West Chester, Pennsylvania, Hughes passed away in New York, from prostate cancer, on May 22, 1967, at the age of 65.

Biography:

James Mercer Langston Hughes was born on February 1, 1902, in Joplin, Missouri, to Carrie Langston Hughes and James Nathaniel Hughes. At an early age his parents separated. James Hughes moved to Mexico where he prospered, but unfortunately his mother was not so successful. She moved frequently to find better jobs. As a result, Hughes spent most of his childhood in Lawrence, Kansas, with his grandmother, Mary Langston, a learned woman and a participant in the civil rights movement. Sadly, Mary Langston passed away when Langston was 12. After her death Langston stayed briefly with his mother and her new husband Homer Clark. Clark left town to seek a job elsewhere and Hughes's mother sent him to live with her mother's friends "Auntie" and Mr. Reed. In 1915 he rejoined his mother, step-father, and step-brother-- Gwyn in Illinois where the family had relocated. After one year, in 1916, Clark moved the family to Cleveland, Ohio.

After graduating from high school in Cleveland, Ohio, Hughes traveled to Mexico to see his father. On the train ride home he wrote his first poem "The Negro Speaks of Rivers," published in the African American periodical Crisis in 1921. That same year he published his first play, The Gold Piece.

With the support of his father, Hughes entered Columbia University, in New York, 1921. He was happy about living in Harlem--the thriving black community provided inspiration for his poetry--but unhappy with the University. The following poem is one he wrote while in Harlem.

Negro

I am a Negro:
Black as the night is black,
Black like the depths of my Africa.

I've been a slave:
Caesar told me to keep his door-steps clean.
I brushed the boots of Washington.

I've been a worker:
Under my hand the pyramids arose.
I made mortar for the Woolworth Building.

I've been a singer:
All the way from Africa to Georgia
I carried my sorrow songs.
I made ragtime.

I've been a victim:
The Belgians cut off my hands in the Congo.
They lynch me now in Texas.

I am a Negro:
Black as the night is black,
Black like the depths of my Africa.


His unhappiness with the university and with his chosen course of studies, engineering, he chose to withdraw--a decision that deeply disappointed his father. After his departure from college he decided to take time and travel, visiting Paris, West Africa, and Italy gaining culture and inspiration for his future works. Later, he returned to the U.S., worked minor jobs, and continued to write poems and prose. At the encouragement of Waring Cuney, a young poet who attended Lincoln University in Chester County, Hughes applied for admission at Cuney's alma mater. No longer supported by his father, Hughes had to come up with the costly tuition per semester himself. Fortunately for Langston, his poems won him a scholarship to Lincoln University in Pennsylvania.

His enrollment in Lincoln coincided almost exactly with his twenty-fourth birthday and the publication of his first volume of poetry. Author Faith Berry cites a quote Hughes made in a letter of his immediate approval of Lincoln University, though partly in jest: "I like Lincoln so much that I expect to be about six years in graduating. I don't ever want to leave...Out here with the trees and rolling hills and open sky, in old clothe, and this do-as-you-please atmosphere, I rest content. This must be the freest of Negro schools." At the time of his enrollment the Harlem Renaissance was beginning to peak and it was not easy for Hughes to meet both the demands of his studies and status as a new and immediately popular poet. Accomplished and educated he made it through Lincoln in three and half years, graduating by 1929.

By this time Hughes had become one of the premier young poets and writers of his generation. He became the first black writer that could support himself on his writing, his goal from early in his career. As his poems, prose, plays, and first novel Not Without Laughter written in 1930 were published, he was rising as a leading voice in the Harlem Renaissance. Hughes's play Mulatto opened in 1935 on Broadway. Adding more to the theatre, during the 1930s to 1940s, he founded numerous black theatre groups in Harlem, Chicago, and Los Angeles. In 1937, he became a reporter for the Baltimore Afro-American and traveled to Spain to write on the Spanish Civil War where Ernest Hemingway befriended him and the two would attend bullfights.

In 1942, Hughes moved to Harlem, which became his permanent home; he traveled and lectured immensely at universities across the United States. In 1953, during the era of McCarthyism, he was accused of being a communist, as were many artists and writers of the time. Some of the poems and works written earlier in his career were deemed controversial and he was summoned to testify before Congress. His testimony simply stated that he was never a Communist and named no names, well aware of blacklisting. Excused from the hearing with good standing, Author Faith Berry notes that "Hughes ultimately emerged from the witch- hunting era with his literary career intact."

In his elder years, Langston Hughes held posts at the University of Chicago and the University of Atlanta where doctoral dissertations were already being written about him, an impressive honor for a well-lived life. His block in Harlem on East 127th Street has been renamed "Langston Hughes Place" in his honor.

After completing more than one hundred works of literature throughout his life, James Mercer Langston Hughes died from complications after surgery for prostate cancer in Polyclinic Hospital in New York, on May 22, 1967.

Works:

Selected Poems:

"The Negro Speaks of Rivers" (1921
"Negro" (1922)
"The Weary Blues" (1926)
"The Dream Keeper" (1932)
"Freedom's Plow" (1943)
"Fields of Wonder" (1947)
Plays:

The Gold Piece (1921)
Mulatto (1935)
Soul Gone Home (1937)
Black Nativity (1961)
Fiction:

Not Without Laughter. New York: Knopf, 1930.
Laughing to Keep from Crying. Mattituck, NY: Aeonian Press, 1952.
I Wander as I Wander An Autobiographical Journey. New York: Rinehart & Company, 1956.
Sources:

Berry, Faith. Langston Hughes Before and Beyond Harlem. Westport, CT: L. Hill, 1983.
Emanuel, James A. Langston Hughes. New York: Twayne, 1967.
Hughes, Langston. I Wander as I Wander An Autobiographical Journey. New York: Rinehart & Company, 1956.
Jackson, Andrew P. "Langston Hughes." Red Hot Jazz Archive. 2004. 31 May 2005. .
"Langston Hughes." America's Story from America's Library. 2004. 31 May 2005. http://www.americaslibrary.gov/cgi-bin/page.cgi/aa/hughes
"Langston Hughes." The Academy of American Poets. 2004. 31 May 2005. .
Meltzer, Milton. Langston Hughes A Biography. New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, 1968.
O'Daniel, Therman B. Langston Hughes Black Genius A CriticalEvaluation. New York: William Morrow & Company, 1971.
Tracy, Steven C. A Historical Guide to Langston Hughes. New York: Oxford UP, 2004.
This biographical sketch was prepared by Joseph J. Kozel.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

SONGS

BLOWING IN THE WIND -by BOB DYLAN

How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many years can a mountain exist
Before it's washed to the sea?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head,
Pretending he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
....................................................


LOOK FOR A STAR by GARY MILLS

When life doesn't seem worth the living,

and you don't really care who you are,

and you feel there is no one beside you ...

look for a star!

When you know you're alone and so lonely,

and your friends have traveled afar,

there is someone waiting to guide you ...

look for a star!

Oh, everyone has a lucky star

that shines in the sky up above.

If you wish on your lucky star,

you're sure to find someone to love.

A rich man, a poor man, a beggar,

no matter whoever you are,

there's a friend who's waiting to guide you ...

look for a star!

A rich man, a poor man, a beggar,

no matter whoever you are,

there's a friend who's waiting to guide you ...

look for a star!

Look for a star!
............................................
THAT'S ALL FOR NOW! MORE later!
MAIL TO: english4u.4all@gmail.com

About this blog

ဘ၀ဆုိတာ

ေလ႕လာသင္ယူဖုိ႕

ရွင္သန္ေနထုိင္ဖုိ႔

သင္ၾကား ေ၀မွ်ေပးဖုိ႔ပါ။

-ေဇယ်ာအုိင္ဦး