Raging over the Paradise Lost: Colombo, March 2022

 

Great are the times,

when survival is a strategy 

only a few seem to have mastered in 

with flying colours through decades of hard practice.

Clenched fists and pleading hands 

in every street corner 

repaying with life, youth, blood and sweat 

for the 'gentle sins' that history keeps repeating,

forgotten, forgiven by masses 

once in every five years 

adding up to the generations of 'gentle sinners'

to rule the land abide by jungle law, 

while some rage over the paradise lost

laboring out there in sold out fields.

Beyond the Horizon

 Out beyond the horizon
lie the legends of those who dared
do the speculations, declare with evidence
that this illusionary border that binds us to Heavens
is in fact surreal.
But not so farther, drowned in this shallow water,
you'll see if you dare dig out
oars of those who failed to understand
life so lightly,
failed to adore a sunset gently,
those who refused with reckless courage
and flaming spirit
to board a cruiser
that reaches someone else's destination. 

Silver Nights in the heart of Colombo

 

Like the silvery raindrops
dripping down the blinking street lamps,
this dimly lit path
colour everything touched by water
In a magical silver,
Even the moisture in your sparkling eyes
as they stare at the flooded streets
and busy feet walking fast,
not noticing the silvery carpet
that welcomes them home
after a long day on a twirling earth. 

Dystopia

Dystopia is where
Milton's infernal serpents are in abundance,
Two-faced scorpions with divided tails
Against whom one cannot commit thoughtcrime
Unless they wish to die in a prison of their worst fears,
For those who manipulate fear know how to secure the upper hand.

It's when hate week is not only there in the fictional 1984,
Dystopia is when those who rule us don't see what we see;
the impending doom that strips out humanity,
Instead breed more serpents to suck out the last bit of love and compassion.

Dystopia is when they make the masses sleepwalk into future
Robbed of hope
With paralised dreams

Anecdotes to an (un)static history

 

Wasn't it when we trespassed the fragile margins
of a known and unknown history,
written and unwritten narratives,
taught ourselves, our people
the sanctioned versions of our momentous histories,
to serve the killjoy extremists
of all origins;
they who killed love and labelled it patriotism
burnt down cities, bombed the innocent
in the name of love,
to secure what was theirs
grab pieces from others
blow the ashes into air
bury the dead with silent prayers?

history is a rhizome
history is the living me
the living you,
for the roots keep growing
under the surface
entangling, fighting for space,
Space
to breathe
grow
live.

Those were the Days

Those were the days
when the hundred bubbles we blew into the vacant air,
reflected the world in myriads of colours.
Feeling the April wind brushing past our unruly hairs,
we watched the rustling leaves shadow-dancing on the whitewashed walls,
under the golden rays of a dozing sun;
Long mid-summer evenings spent in the now-absent backyard.

Every passing second was a memory to keep,
As for now, we take long walks and
detailed glances at the moments we museumised;
It takes ages to walk past these sun-filled corridors
Yet so young, untouched by time.