There are evenings when the sky of Yangon catches fire.
As if to glow the gold of the giant Stuppa which points from the great pagoda, the tears of the setting sun flood the sky and pour down on the horizon by gaps of clouds. It’s the golden hour before the black falls on the city. A little fresh after a stifling day.
Magic ephemeral moment.
The crows fly away and utter their last cries. The mosquitoes are already on the war footing.
One day ends.
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