Hundreds of migrants from Myanmar and Bangladesh are stranded in the sea after Indonesia, Thailand and Malaysia denied them entry.
Representational ImageReuters File

They packed their bags,
a backpack each.
They took clothes and food,
and the one thing they wished.

The girl took her book,
The father kept the gold,
the boy packed his favourite toy,
The mother took the family photo.

They passed rubble and shells,
streets filled with bodies and blood.
Some faces they knew,
but most were disfigured.

Before the break of dawn,
they reached the sea.
And stood in queue;
they were the hundredth family.

The boat wasn't big,
but it took them all
and it was time to leave,
before the rockets started to fall.

As they left the shore,
they looked back one last time,
At what once was their town,
Now reduced to grime.

And soon there was nothing,
but the sea and skies.
And 300 faces
but not a single smile.

They huddled together
and cried to sleep,
dreaming of their home
that they would never see.

The waves rocked the boat
like a mother her baby,
but they were no one's children,
they were now refugees.

As the moon rose high,
the sea turned rough,
And slapped at their faces,
As if punishing the deserters.

Water and panic filled the boat
and it soon began to sink.
Many jumped off,
But he kept a hold on his kin.

But the sea didn't forgive,
It took down the boat,
With their prayers and cries,
To the ocean floor.

And as the sun came up,
There was nothing left to see
Just a floating scarf
And a photo of a family.