The Monks Go Red

Deep and calm, flows the Irrawaddy

In the land of the temples,

For centuries bloomed diversity

Once in the nation’s melting pot,

Bengalis, Siamese, Yunnanese in-and-out.

The concoction is now stirred violently,

To scoop out one of them silently.

Plucked lotuses melt into dust,

As states begin to rust.

Corroding states fall like tall teaks,

Aching, bleeding underneath, a nation squeaks

As the monsoon pours, nations drench,

Not the water, its blood’s stench

Ravaged and hungry, eaten away by damp

Behind the iron curtain, at the Irrawaddy’s bank

Beat of axes now replaced by guns

In the Iron forest, a nation runs.

High on the Opium of masses, dead-bodies flood,

And green paddy is soaked in blood.

Arakaan or Rakhine, Muslim or pristine,

No matter what, they turn philistine

Waters turn grave,

For they can no more brave

Guns have replaced beads,

And a nation bleeds,

In their Orange robe, with a pumpkin bowl,

Come the Monks, praying for all,

Merits you shall have too, if you kill a kafir

Said the monks about the life-after

As compassion wanes, states rise,

Buddha cries, as a nation dies

Because Monks go red,

Rohingyas go dead.

Fire, guns, boots and bomb,

Indifferently listens all of the Mekong.