Life has its own seasons, beginning with its spring, ending with its winter.

Wish I had dinner again.

An unprecedented calamity had finally descended upon the city with the presence of Japanese soldiers, exercising a new set of law and order, alien to those that the people were accustomed to under the British. It marked the beginning of a new, uncertain dawn that ushered in the Rising Sun.

The entertainment at the Employees’ Club seemed like an antithesis of Maung Ba’s state of mind about the dark side of colonialism.

Time keeps fleeting, with age following closely. The old man looks at the fallen leaves, then stops and admires the wild flowers, pausing awhile, as he sees the roses wilting. It is autumn. Spring had come and gone. He likened the inevitable passing of the seasons to his advancing age, hoping the winter would be kind and the snows tolerable.