If the rain had rhythm


If the rain had rhythm,
would it be English or would it be Burmese ?

If the rain had rhythm,
silent like the monks,
showering like the bullets,
slaughtering like the machetes.

What if the cry of Rohingya was the rhythm of rain ?
Where the camouflage uniforms stripped the women of their pride,
buried their husbands, killed the womb before it saw daylight ;
would it pitter-patter for the homeless ?

Isn't this defeat of humanity
so accurate, so grim ?

What if their homes didn't burn for ages ?
What if the land of Buddhists spared the fibres, nerves and flesh of her Islam sons ?
What if the rain could wash away the blood stained borders,
the tales of patriotism stuck between now and forever ?
Whatever happens,
silence lingers.

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