I’ll fire, at you, until, you fall
Since, you stand, by those, who razed, our home
And raped, your sisters, if you, still, recall
Myanmar, Junta’s, ethnic sin-drome!
It pained me, to, forget my son
Who chose, to be, Junta’s henchman
I dare, to say, how, yearns my gun
To prove, my fidelity, to my clan!
Who broke, our family, was it war
Or, present’s disrepair, and, future’s fear
Lest, a son, baptize, with his, father’s gore
Ethos, of a land, that turned, mutineer!
Democracy, was a sham-e, Junta, a gory game
Our nation’s, run, by, shenanig(u)ns
How, a holy hearth, hate’s home, became
Where Fathers, Battle, With Their Sons!
© 2022 Vikas Chandra