A few wilderness’ palm tree protect us from the storm
Tonight a wind force 8 blow on tarpaulins
Setting of Far West in the west of the golden triangle
It’s the traditional Burma, land of 1000 pagodas
Little Nour is some kind of rare heroin
Who drive her orphan barque among the Rohingyas
These apatrid people whose no one worry about
Not even the Nobel Prize Aung San Suu Kyi
She work for her boss, a farmer
Since her parents died in the cellar of a boat-people
Who had left to find a better life, in the hand of people smuggler
With a rice portion per day and drinking their own urine
She’s cultivating under the sun, the caoutchoucs’ plantation
A strand of hair falling on the eye, thanaka powder on the cheeks
Employee of a man refusing her the Burmese status
Who smile less than Buddha’s face
An illegal work where she earn some kyat
Will allow her to tile her hut’s floor in some hessian mat
But above all, allow her to avoid to sell her rice ration
The one donated by humanitarian aid fighting against famine
For the man that she call Boss, she’s just a Bengali
He’s lusting after her woman body when she’s still hardly isn’t one yet
His breath infected by cheap alcohol
And his advances of married man had became forced sexual relations
One day he unknotted her longyi with his bamboo
But the young woman screamed so out loud, we even heard her to Yangon
She’s covering her pair of legs, her virginal prudishness
The man hit her face and mark it of his jade stone ring
Blood is running on his wrap skirt
She’s running through countryside fields
She grab the neck of a Burmese beer
And hit her assailant’s head
A muddy rain is falling
The man at the end of her thumbs lost his pulse
Surrender would incriminate her a bit, so she’s going home on a oxcart
At dawn, I will be leaving on the river just like my parents did
A young migrant’s destiny on a floating coffin
In any case, around here there’s nothing for my people
Muslim, I will find happiness around Kuala Lumpur
The myanmar jeopardize my ethnic group
Here basically, you have to be born as a buddhist if you want to be free
Veterans’ Dogs are luckier
Me, I live in a camp of displaced persons, I sleep directly on the ground
My village, overpopulated, it’s the livestock market
And everytime I want to leave it, a police officer interrogate me
Anti-Rohingyas, theirs laws regulate births and weddings
Because it seems that brown skin people have an animal fertility
Apatrid under predation in the homeland of pacifism
Because of extremists and a following crowd with a herd mentality
We live a flagrante delicto which by their temple is blessed
It’s settled, tomorrow I will leave this painful city
Arriving on the camp, some buddhist monks are waiting for her
She noticed blood stain on theirs saffron-yellow robes
Far away she noticed her madrasa sacked
Five monks form a circle around her and then attack
Weapons in teak wood plaster her head and her body
The most violent knocks touch her, under her eye create an edema
Her floating ribs perforated, her child braid full of dirt
Her mind still is wondering who’s the traitor who’ve raised the alarm
Blind violence, bruises suture her eyes
Even so, she catch a glimpse of these holymen’s scut work
Assault rifle strap contrast with their orange clothes
Children are running in the rice field and decamping in all directions
Buddhists’ sect in the service of a racist state
And of an conniving police exterminating its people to the root
Of the ambush she was the target, her child body is igniting
Following her t-shirt’s blaze which is know burning like acid
Her skeletal body is carbonizing
She’s crying out, agonizing
Hearing the laugh of these crime inducers, resonating in the whole slum
The monsoon rain is falling, struggle to extinguish her body
Will leave her steaming body beside the jungle
Little Nour was buried, her people piled up in mass grave
Child of destiny, child of war
Rohingyas, Uyghurs, Sri Lankans, Tibetan, Karen people
And all the oppressed peoples