The regime's soldiers advance.
They kill our animals, take our rice.
From our schools they take the learning and light.
They burn our villages and steal our minds.
We hear the soldiers’ voice, and we are filled with fear and hate.
And we must run, run, run, until our legs break,
Refugees without a home, without a camp.
They dress our Buddhas in women’s underwear.
We see our people floating bloated in the river.
We have land but cannot farm it, forced labour in our lot.
“peace, peace, peace”, they say. Burma says we are at peace.
But we are not. We hear gunshots night and day.
And we must run, run, run, until our legs break,
Refugees without a home, without a camp.
Some Shan live in Thailand, work as servants or as slaves,
Some live in relocation camps, without money, food, or hope.
Some live in the jungle and hear their dying child’s cries,
Mosquitoes on their limbs, and leeches in their eyes.
They dig a shallow grave and place the child inside,
And then they must run, run, run, until their legs break,
Refugees without a home, without a camp.