End of war special edition, Peace and Conflict, Poetry, Politics and Governance, Post-War


I wish to crack
a bottle of arrack
and kick my legs
out on the verandah

before the sea
at twilight,
this mix of
liquor, even

kisses, pleasure
under whirring
fans, brought
by our soldiers

villagers with bombs.
They chose war,
the Tamils,

must now face
the music,
on one foot

to a new master.
This is obvious,
why write poetry
anymore, or even

put on a suit
or read the classics?
The arrack is sweet
and limestone,

salt and gems,
if any , in the North
will be harvested
to enjoy our southern

evenings strolling
at Unawatuna
hand in hand
under the moon;

even that Tamil
boy who lost
his mother
and father

to a misplaced
says he must
move on,

learn a trade.
There is a new
calculus, throw
away the abacus,

Boys, the dream
has been denied.
Bend your heads
and genuflect,

we may yet
be kind and
give you a bit
of land down

the street
from the newly
shooted Bo Tree
and the shrine.

End of War Special Edition