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
bludgeoning
villagers with bombs.
They chose war,
the Tamils,
must now face
the music,
hopping
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
projectile,
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.
