Red and raw were her spectating eyes
Anticipating international outcry-
Why, oh why do lactating breasts feature so oft’ in the press?
The floating child’s features were so familiar!
She’d seen him before, was it Syria?
Wailing, moist, cold was the air;
The land counting in despair
For each and every-body spare.
Bare, naked, piled up in every direction
And finally ready for collection
Moving and motionless, their index fingers marked the destination-
A home for the Rohingya nation.