Sea Gypsies of Myanmar

Their universe is the turquoise ocean


By the umbilical cords of their children

They are born, live and die

On hand-built boats

A mirage of flotillas rolling

On the swell beneath the setting sun

Divers and beachcombers

Take only what they need

Living on the islands

In houses toppling on stilts

During the monsoons’

Heavy rain

Blustery winds

And big seas

But there is no protection

From death, the bends

And exploitation

The world is closing in

Moken fishing

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