The Blog



By Maung Maung Tin

You realm, my umbilical cord,
heart of bee
Where my umbilicus, they overruled
Still my people, have been tortured
We, my society, got path to refugee

Mothers gave birth, we, dreamers of whimsy
Dreams were banned, We, like screamers
Still my dreams, floating on tears
We, my people, became refugee

Arakan, my blood and my rights
I am lost and hurt, but I couldn’t bite
Empty blooded, I was alive
Crossed the river, and refugees’ sight

We fled from beautiful garden
Where we breathed, and played our eyes
But the garden is, filled with ashes
That made my eternity, living in treeless garden

Ancient historical data, rubbing out by psychology
In original name of pen, depleted inkless
Now my people is made stateless and nameless
You named Bangali, the world is calling refugee

Editorial Team
The Art Garden Rohingya 

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