Migrant Worker's Death Of Air Hunger In Thailand. Poem by U Win Kyi

I will die of food hunger,
if I stay in a country......so poor,
where job opportunity is so rare,
so I must find the greener pasture,
leaving to a foreign country with adventure.
This is why I become a migrant worker.

I leave my country not because I love her lesser and lesser.
If I stay, my family's poverty will be deeper and deeper,
with their stomach emptier and emptier.
Then one day, in a sardine-packed container, I leave my home farther
and farther.
To a neighbor country where earning money maybe a bit easier,
though I know I will be ripped-off the skin layer by layer,
my blood will be sucked by the boss, drier and drier.

As the truck approaches the destination nearer and nearer,
I breath with difficulty harder and harder,
because the air is thinner and thinner,
the oxygen is lower and lower,
my head is dizzier and dizzier,
my body weaker and weaker,
my voice fainter and fainter,
my heart-beat slower, slower, slow, slo...slo....sl....sl.....s, ...s..........s..........s
I die of air hunger.

(Dedicated to 54 Burmese people who died in cargo container
in THAILAND.)