A cloudy Sunday morning,

I woke up feeling guilty,

The sins of our past,

Our generations inherited failures,

Heartrates, and bloodsheds,

Rohingyas a name that breads hate,

Prosecuted and despairs by Myanmar,

Rejected, driven into wilderness,

A nation without a state.

You brighten my day, as you talk about us,

You watch our children buried in mass grave

Men with guns, plays on our vulnerability,

They raped our wives and killed our men,

The world watches our exodus and prosecutions,

Laid away in shackles on the street of Myanmar

Our houses on fire, Rohingyas blood spilled.

Our tears flowing like an ocean,

Another day, another challenge,

You kill our dreams and bury our hopes

All men are not created equally,

Rohingyas are in this world, rejected,

The sun that shines on freedom has cast a doubt,

Another day on the street of Myanmar.

Rohingya, the prosecuted.