For the 213th man on Manus Island

Dear Prime Minister,

On behalf of the 213th man on Manus Island, close the camps, bring them here and end the nightmare.

One day, like every day,
I took those pills. I had no choice.
I fell deep into dreams, was sunk there for hours.
I saw I was dead. I was happy: satisfied.
They put me in a rotten coffin. I was shrouded
in pale second hand linens. It was clear
they took them from the rubbish.
They wrapped me in those linens. My soul got separated;
I was suspended in the air.
They were taking me to those far places of the cemetery.
I was looking for a familiar person to hold my coffin.
I wished I could have died
beside my parents, so to die
in peace, in their embrace.
But I saw these strangers damn and curse.
They did not care for what they held,
and they did not cry.
We got to the cemetery in exile.
They threw me into the hole with hate.
There was a stony pillow under my head.
The shrouding linens were rotten on my body.
How terrible and frightening it was,
inside the grave.
I saw many animals make their way into my grave.
They all attacked my body.
My soul saw how they ate my body. They left nothing
but some pieces of my bones.
It seemed that I wasn’t a human once.
I used to talk and laugh until yesterday.
They threw soil on my coffin.
They didn’t put a headstone there.
They wrote no address and no name.
No one in the world knew who I am.
In my dream I said, “Parents! know I died!’’
I saw my parents in black because of my death.
And how deeply they cried out and wept.
My mum tore at her face,
till there was nothing left undamaged, and there were blood and tears
flowing down her face.
— excerpt from a poem by Mohammad Ali Maleki, Manus Island