The Rohingya
Morning child opens mouth and gasps
Not at the beauty of the sun
Arching above, royally radiant
Due to the sight of flamed forest
Frightening screams of family
Running for their existence
Chased by gun toting monsters
Faces framed by long standing
Hatred of otherness
The child's screams wakes
The mother,thin malnourished
A face distorted by night terrors
Instinctively her arms stretch,comfort
Holds tight, picks child up
To run, as fast as able to
Escape the monsters grasp
Other parents sprint too
With their precious cargo
To try and reach sanctuary
But legs are weak and can't outrun
The bulletts that rage and lacerate
Speedier than a fleeing child
More die as the world shrugs
Turns away and Pilate like
Wash their unraised hands.
by William Jones
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