Howl for a new generation (with apologies to Allen Ginsberg)
losing a beloved on an ordinary day in Colombo, in Mannar Town, where pools of blood swell on the steps of a bus, in the market place, on dusty shell shocked streets, and the sentinels of the war stand guard, holding back our grief; only the palm thatched rooftops bear witness to departing warriors. our silence remains steadfast as the minds of my generation, give way to the rot of rabid thought tracks, and all we are left with, is denial and counter-denial, a tunnel of silence, a never ending drumbeat. somebody, take this, take my anger, add it to yours. take it simmering, a ball of blue flame, watch how it ignites when we don’t handle it carefully howl, howl to Jesus, if you want or to Allah, I don’t care prostrate at Buddha’s altar or in Kaliamma’s temple, even though we may be afraid, because we are afraid, because we know that it may end, alone, among strangers…
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