for those who cannot return



In Sydney

the trains run on time,

coffee stays hot,

and my phone fills with emails about visas.
In Myanmar

someone’s house is burning.
I spend my days

translating fear into legal language,

writing sentences that say
he will be arrested,

she cannot return,

the risk is real.
The law asks for evidence.

Myanmar is full of it.
Mass graves.

Airstrikes.

Students who disappeared.
Sometimes it feels strange

living this quiet life

while my people learn

the sound of drones in the sky.
But distance

does not mean safety.
Every message from home

arrives like a small explosion.
Ko Ko, they took him.

Ko Ko, the village is gone.
And still

the world moves normally.
In the morning

I button my shirt,

open my laptop,

and try again
to build a bridge of words

between the country I live in

and the country

that refuses to let me go.