Bogdan Vitas is a native of Chicago, Ill., and majoring in international studies and literature. Vitas writes poetry and prose to raise public awareness of human rights crises worldwide. Besides writing poetry and prose in the rare free moments he has, Bogdan enjoys rowing and being a recreational tanguero.

A lonely soul imprisoned in Rangoon,
A leader forbidden to lead,
Stoically passing the October monsoon,
Waiting another moment to be freed,
Upon the windowsill, songbirds softly croon:
This world is unjust indeed.
Receding along the western sky, a timid sun,
Pokes the last traces of light betwixt battered betel palms,
The jungle night, dark and dreary, has only just begun,
As wayward rebels set out to cast their alms,
The well-beaten path they do smartly shun,
Among their ranks about that you shall hear no qualms.
The saffron tide stirs within hallowed doors,
Of the pagoda Kuthodaw,
As countless rebels arrive in untold scores,
Bolding wicked Tatmadaw,
Far off lays the fiend, ‘mongst bureaucratic whores,
A beast sprawled in Naypyidaw.
A grandfatherly figure from the bhikkhus does emerge,
Clad in vestments of crimson tatters,
Through the crowd he slowly glides, other bhikkhus diverge,
Before him, an elfin samanera scatters,
A most serene visage, at his temple does much converge,
In archaic tones, the silence he shatters.
Noble though your cause may be,
Forever fighting tyranny,
But accept your alms we cannot,
Our memories stretch, we have not forgot.
Of the children you have forced into service,
Your hearts are no better than the tyrants you fight,
Blackened dark with hatred and malice,
For our begging bowls to accept yours or theirs,
Would be to ignore the children’s lonely plight.