A language is an identity,

We bring them with us all the time,

Just like love, or race, or gender,

Our language is our own.

Some people are killed for theirs,

an identity they can't help,

love can be illegal,

a language can get you killed.

Myanmar has thousands,

local and national,

the Rohingya people have their own,

and they are slaughtered.

Religion is another,

murdered and killed,

even if a country is Buddhist,

peace may not come to you.

The Rohingya people are Muslim,

they must flee their homes,

to countries full of hate,

because theirs have more.

Their country, I say,

although we can't call it theirs,

a 'stateless entity' we say,

because you won't give them your home.

People should never be killed,

for things they can't control,

or over half the world would be dead,

for simply living.

(NOTE: I learn four different languages at school and outside it, which got me thinking about how language barriers can affect discrimination placed upon people, so I found out how many different languages Myanmar has, and this poem was born.)

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